The New World
by HolyPaladin2
Summary: When the Game of Thrones is interrupted by 100% Murica. (Modern America and Westeros Story)
1. ARYA I

**ARYA**

"This is boring." What Arya had thought was one of the Mad Prince's rubies, gleaming beneath the water, turned out to be nothing more than a glimmering stone. She flung it into the river with a loud splash.

"M'lady," Mycah wasn't having much luck either, from what Arya could see. Instead of rubies, Mycah was content with amassing a small pile of stones next to him. "I swear they're in 'ere someplace!"

"They aren't." Arya crossed her arms, glaring out into the rushing waters. Something bumped into her side, and she saw Nymeria there, head tilted to the side as her Direwolf let off a questioning whimper. In spite of herself, Arya felt a small smile appear on her face, and she reached down to scratch her friend between her ears. Looking upwards at the clear sky, she saw nothing but a single, lonely bird lazily circling overhead.

_This is still boring, though._ Arya thought. She had come out here with Mycah to get away from the Royal Caravan, away from Sansa, from Septa Mordane, and the Queen. None of them were any fun and the Queen...

She didn't like the Queen. She wasn't afraid, she told herself, but she didn't like the Queen. Arya didn't want to be anywhere near her, and when she was there was always the urge to get away, and quickly.

Bringing her thoughts back to the river, Arya knew she had a plan, though. Behind her on the tree were two swords (made of wood, and originally broom handles.) Picking up both, she turned around to Mycah, his hands submerged in the water. "Mycah!" She called out, the butcher's boy turning to look at her. "Catch!"

Mycah fumbled around with the stick when it landed in his hands, getting a grip as Arya advanced. "M'lady?"

"How about we play at swords again?" She stopped, already imagining who she would be this time.

The butcher's boy looked at her for a moment. "If'm Duncan the Tall." He said, lifting his stick like it was Father's sword, Ice.

Arya smiled. "Then I'm Visenya." She pointed her sword ahead and charged.

As they clashed blades, Arya thought that she could win easily if she just swung her sword and bashed Mycah. It wouldn't work too well with Needle, though, so she challenged herself to win only with parries, followed by a thrust. She thought it was how Visenya and Nymeria would've fought.

Spotting an opening in Mycah's parries, she lunged forward-

And yelped, her now-empty knuckles flying to her mouth as she spied a small grin form on Mycah's face.

It disappeared when she heard a cruel, familiar laugh from behind her. She turned around to see the Prince on his horse, with her sister beside him. "_Arya?"_ Sansa called out.

Eyes welling up from the pain, she responded. "Go away. What are you doing here? Leave us alone."

Joffery looked between the two. "Your sister?" When Sansa nodded, he turned to look at Mycah, and Arya felt a pit form in her stomach. "And who are you, boy?" As if Mycah wasn't a year older.

"Mycah," her friend said quietly, looking at the grass. "M'lord." He added.

It got worse from there. Joffery arrogantly sauntered over to Mycah, holding a sword to his cheek even as Arya said they were just playing.

"Arya, you stay out of this," Sansa's words, as always, rebuked Arya for doing anything fun, or unladylike. She readied a reply-

"I won't hurt him." Prince Joffery said, and Arya saw a smile grow on his pale face as Mycah began to bleed from where Joffery held his sword to his cheek. "Much."

She made her decision then. She rushed forward, making little sound as she lifted the leafless branch above her head, ready to smash Joffery's-

Nymeria's sudden barks shattered her concentration, and she stumbled. Quick on her feet, she stopped quickly and looked up, freezing when Joffery's emerald eyes met her own. "Ungrateful little _bitch_!" He began, a sneer spreading across his face. As he glared at Arya, Mycah hesitantly stepped back. In that, Arya spotted an opportunity.

"Mycah, run!" She screamed. The boy froze for a second, as did Joffery, whose hate-filled eyes turned away from her and back to the butcher's boy as he began to sprint into the woods.

"Stop!" Joffery began, following close behind her friend. "Stop!" He repeated, kicking Mycah's knees and knocking the boy on his back. Before he could get up, Joffery planted his sword on Mycah's throat.

"Stop," he began again, moving around Mycah to look at both him and Arya. "Or I will cut your throat."

"You can't do this!" Arya screamed out, yet with her feet firmly planted on the ground.

"Arya, do as he says," Sansa came riding up behind her, as Arya felt her lightly kick at her shoulder. "The boy shouldn't have hit you."

Arya opened her mouth when she heard something in the distance. A deep, loud, rumbling noise, like an earthquake, but she didn't feel the ground shake beneath her feet. Joffery tilted his head to where the sound was coming from, the Kingsroad as it passed over a small hill. Arya stepped back when a line of green carriages nearly flew over the hill, wincing as they began to screech, slowing down and turning towards her. When they stopped, Arya stared.

Each of them resembled the Queen's wheelhouse - but only superficially. The gray-green carriages sat much lower to the ground and had much smaller wheels. None of them had horses to haul it, and Arya wondered if they lost theirs before the wheelhouses began to move on their own, four inching towards her, the other four turning around to face the opposite direction. She stepped back until they also stopped, and she noticed the passengers.

On top of each of the wheelhouses were men with black ballistas, pointing it at her and the others there. Inside of each, there were small, glass windows, revealing four more men in each vehicle. _20 in total, _Arya noted, as they exited the wheelhouses, all but one, who held a black box to their mouth and ear.

She first noted their faces and figures. Some were normal, with hints of blonde, red, or black hair. Some of them, however, had skin that was as black as the night or as brown as the dirt. She began to remember the tales of the Summer Islanders before she noticed with a start that some of them were women - their slim faces and figures distinguishing them.

They were strangely dressed, to her eyes. Their clothes were a mix of greens, browns, and tans, like the few Crannogmen she saw on their way through the Neck. She noticed that their left shoulder had some heraldry on it, but she could only make out a lightning bolt crossed over on top of something else. On their right shoulder was a small, rectangular banner: red and white stripes, with a blue field and white stars in one of the corners. She didn't recognize which lord had those colors.

They were soldiers, though. The way they walked, the way they held themselves, it was so much like Father's men. She was confident they weren't bandits, but there was a sudden nervousness in her chest that stopped her from talking or asking them. She gathered up the courage to look one of them in their eyes, only to see concealing, black glass covering them.

The soldier she looked at was the first to talk. "The _fuck?"_

"Who are you?" Joffery demanded, and Arya noticed he was pointing his sword at the soldiers.

It began to waver and shake when all of the soldiers looked at him, nearly at once. Another soldier, this one with what looked like a small crossbow at their hip, walked forward, ahead of the rest. "We are Americans." He said, after a moment. Arya never heard of anything 'American.' "And soldiers in the United States Army. Who are you?"

Joffery's face grew red. "I am the Prince!" He shouted. "Son of King Robert, heir to the Seven Kingdoms! You should be honored to be in my presence!"

The soldier's face twinged in annoyance. Instead of saying anything, he turned towards Arya. "Is he?" He asked.

"His grace is correct," Sansa said before Arya could answer him, "Who are you?" She asked.

"Captain Zoeckler." He replied. He looked back at Joffery for a moment, before turning back to them. "Is he cleared to negotiate on behalf of seven kingdoms?"

"The King isn't too far from here," Arya spoke quickly, lest Sansa interrupt her again. She ignored the slight kick in her side and Sansa's hushed _Arya!_ "And father, too."

"And who is he?" The Captain asked.

"Our father is Lord Stark, Captain." Sansa cut in, again, and Arya couldn't help but feel cheated. She should be talking to these people, not Sansa. "The Hand of the King."

The Captain nodded, his eyes unreadable behind that dark glass. "Can you take us to them?"

Joffery snorted. "You will come with _me_," he said, stomping over to his horse was, next to Sansa's. Captain Zoeckler watched him walk off with a neutral expression before his head turned towards Mycah with a frown.

"You hold on for a moment." He said, and the boy stopped in his tracks. He then turned to the soldier next to him - Arya remembered him as the soldier who spoke in the beginning. "PFC Lee, get the first-aid kit out. We're not going to leave him bleeding."

The soldier nodded, walking back to the wheelhouse. "Yes, sir."

"Ser?" Sansa asked her full attention on the Captain. "Would you be a... Knight?" Arya didn't think so - he looked nothing like the knights they were riding with.

She couldn't help but smile when the captain shook his head. "No. It's a term of respect for a male in America, or in this case, for addressing a superior officer. We don't have knights in America."

Joffery sneered, sliding on top of his horse. "Then you shouldn't have the title." The captain shrugged at that, not saying anything in return as the 'Pee-eff-see' Lee returned from the wheelhouse, a box with a red cross atop a white square in his hands. "And what are you waiting for?"

Lee cracked open the box, full of bandages and scraps of material. "This boy's bleeding, in case you haven't noticed." Mycah flinched as the soldier examined his bleeding cheek closely, wincing as he poured out water from a container, rinsing off the blood. Lee had just finished putting a scrap of material on his face - somehow staying on without being tied on - and was standing back up when he noticed the Prince glaring at him, his face as red as his clothes. "What?"

"Didn't your lords teach you to respect your betters? I don't know what you gave that butcher's boy, but I demand you remove it this instant!" The soldier turned to face Joffery directly, his expression reminding Arya of how she must have looked like when she was trying to tolerate her sister. She remembered then how the soldier didn't address Joffery as 'Your Grace,'

"We have no lords in America," The Captain said, his head alternating between looking at the Prince and the soldier. "As for the boy, we noticed he was bleeding, so we stopped it. If you want to argue about it, then let's go to the King. Your Grace."

Joffery glared at them for a moment longer. "You will regret this, peasant," He promised, turning his horse around with a huff as he began to ride back to the camp. Sansa took off after him, shooting a backward glance towards Arya, before leaving her with the Americans.

She turned to Mycah. "Come on," She said, untying her horse from the tree and climbing on, helping to pull Mycah up as Nymeria walked alongside her. Mounted, she turned to the Americans, who were climbing inside their wheelhouses. "It's not too far! Just follow me."

Despite starting ahead of them, the wheelhouses caught up quickly, letting her ride side-by-side with them. She didn't mind it much, though: it let her see inside the wheelhouses the Americans had. She soon puzzled out that it was guided by a wheel inside, but she couldn't figure out what was moving the wheelhouse itself. _Magic?_ She thought, excitedly. It would be like one of Old Nan's stories come to life.

"That's a nice dog you have there." The soldier, Lee, was in the back of the wheelhouse closest to her. "What's his name?"

"Her name," she corrected, "It's Nymeria, and she's a Direwolf puppy."

"A puppy?" The soldier looked back at Nymeria, reaching up to the horse's legs. "How big do... Direwolves grow up to be?"

She smiled. "My brothers said their mother was the size of a pony."

The soldier shook his head, though Arya could see the small smile on his face. "Hope you have a big house or a big yard for her to play in, then."

She thought of Winterfell, with its towers that scraped the skies, and the huge godswood nearby. "The biggest," she said, as the soldier began to laugh.

Soon enough, though, they arrived at the Inn at the Crossroads, where the Royal Caravan had rested for the day. Already, she saw there was a mass of soldiers forming in front, standing behind them was a crowd of smallfolk and courtiers, watching with wide eyes as the Americans moved their horseless wheelhouses closer to the Inn.

In front was Father, standing there grimly as he watched the Americans inch closer. Though Arya couldn't miss how wide his eyes were, comparatively at least. "That's a big fucking sword on his back," Lee said, quietly, looking at Ice. She quickly rode up, hoping to catch up to Sansa and the Prince before they could start talking.

"Who have you brought with you?" He asked immediately, "Are either of you hurt?"

"They call themselves the Americans," Joffery said, "and they so desperately wanted to meet my father." Father's eyes flicked over to Arya, a question on his lips before someone else interrupted.

"Would you be King Robert or Lord Stark?" Captain Zoeckler asked. Turning around, Arya saw that he, and all of the soldiers from earlier, were standing behind him, their hands on the crossbows they carried around.

Father's eyes turned towards the Captain, as hard and cold as the North. "Sansa, Arya, your Grace, behind me." He ordered. Arya quickly rode ahead, as did Sansa, but Joffery merely smiled.

"I'm not afraid of these cravens." He said, "Not a sword on them." That was true: none of the Americans seemed to carry anything larger than a knife.

Father didn't react. "I am not King Robert." He said, finally, turning his attention towards the Captain. "I am his hand, Lord Eddard Stark. Who are you, and why do you want to meet with his Grace?"

"As I have told your girls, I am Captain Zoeckler of the United States Army." If the Captain was annoyed by how Joffery spoke of him, he didn't show it. Arya did see a few soldiers who seemed angry, though the dark glass over their eyes made it difficult to tell what they were angry about. "I, myself, have been sent with my unit to scout out this area and see if we could make contact with local authority. My leaders would like to meet with..." He paused. "His grace, and negotiate with him."

"His grace is currently indisposed at the moment," Father said. "As the Hand of the King, my words are second only to his. What do you want to negotiate for?"

"There will be no negotiation," Joffery cut in, "These cravens need to be taught respect. They've refused my commands and have treated me like I was a smallfolk!"

Father's eyes flickered to Joffery for a moment, before turning back to the Captain, wordlessly demanding an explanation. "When we arrived, we saw that Mycah, here, has a cut on his face, inflicted by the Prince. Since we had bandages to spare, we didn't think anything of it until the Prince demanded we remove them. As for why we did not obey the Prince, the fact that he is not our leader should be self-evident."

Joffery's fingers gripped the sword hilt at his side until they turned white. "That boy was assaulting the sister of my betrothed!" He pointed at Arya, "And after I rescued her, she had the gall to try and attack me!"

"Liar!" Arya shouted out on reflex, even as the murmurs increased from the crowd. "Me and Mycah were just playing together - like we always do!"

"Both of you, quiet," Father said, and Arya shut her mouth, feeling as if a river of words were pressing up against her lips, trying to break out and be heard. "We will deal with this later. I will repeat my question, captain: what do you want to negotiate for?"

"It would be better to discuss it with my leaders," The captain said, brushing off the question. Afterward, he turned towards Lee and said something quietly. They nodded and walked back to the wheelhouses where another soldier remained with a box held to their ear. "But mainly, it would be for us to understand who we're dealing with."

"Your leaders..." Stark began, a hint of skepticism in his voice. "Where do you come from?"

"The United States of America..." The Captain trailed off, tilting his head. "My Lord?" He asked, the words foreign to him.

Father scoffed, quietly. "I am not your Lord. Lord Stark or Lord Hand would suffice," The Captain nodded, as Father continued, "I haven't heard of a place called America."

"I haven't heard of the Seven Kingdoms either, Lord Stark," The captain replied, "would we still meet, regardless?" At that moment, the soldier the captain sent out earlier returned. He whispered something and stepped back. "...tomorrow, at noon?"

"Your leaders are certainly interested in meeting us soon," Father noted, "why not now, then?"

Captain Zoeckler shook his head. "We need at least a day, Lord Stark. Besides King Robert currently being indisposed at the moment, a day would give us at least the bare minimum of time to make a decision as fast as possible."

"So be it," Father said with a nod. "Will you be staying here until then?" Arya blinked, looking at the sun. She hadn't realized it had gotten so late to be late in the evening.

"No, we'll be back tomorrow. Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?"

Eddard Stark was quiet for what seemed like a long while. "No," he said. "If you want to wait for you leaders to talk, then there is no point in talking to you."

"Understood," The Captain said. "I will see you tomorrow." With that, he turned around and walked back to the horseless wheelhouses, climbing in with the other soldiers. Arya wondered how they would be able to travel in the dark when, one by one, infernal lights shone from within the carriages, causing all who were witnessing it to mutter, speaking of black magic as the vehicles turned around and rode back the way they came through the wood.

When the last one vanished, her father turned to her, Sansa, and the Prince. "Get off your horses, and into the Inn." He ordered. "I want to hear everything."

* * *

**Author's Note: America in this story is set in a very minor AU, where the president (and current politics in general) are replaced by generic figures. This is in order to comply with item #4 under the "Entries not Allowed" portion of the site's rules (which prohibits non-historical and non-fictional characters in any story.) Thank you.  
**


	2. EDDARD I

**EDDARD**

"Horseless wheelhouses, you say?" Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms and his friend had a note of incredulity in his voice, one that had been with him since Eddard roused him from his sleep that morning.

"Yes, Your Grace." Not that Eddard blamed him: he saw them himself, and even he wondered if he were delirious.

The King turned to look at him, his face unreadable as he let out a large sigh. Turning back to see where the Americans were yesterday, he spoke, "Were it anyone else Ned, I would think they were drunk off their asses." Even then, Eddard recalled, Robert thought that he had gotten shit-faced drunk before he began questioning the others who witnessed the Americans and saw the wheel tracks leading into the forest.

Eddard suspected that the wheelhouses the Americans rode were faster than they appeared. After the soldiers departed, he had some of his men ride out and try to follow them to their camp. They should have ridden faster than the Americans, yet they found only dirt tracks. The best his men found out was that they were somewhere south of the Trident but had to turn back before it was too dark to return. Not that the Americans would have that problem, he reflected, remembering the bright, unnatural light the wheelhouses emitted.

"Could it have been, though?" Stark's eyes flickered to the left of himself and the King, where Renly Baratheon stood, a cocksure grin on his face. "First horseless wheelhouses, next we'll be hearing of Grumpkins and Snarks."

"All of us?" Stark asked.

Renly shrugged, never losing his grin. "Of course, Lord Stark. Even now, I'm nothing more than an alcoholic specter, and you'll wake to find yourself back in the frozen North." Wouldn't that be true, he thought, thinking of Bran. He wished it was just the drink.

Ser Barristan, standing ahead of both of them by his King, interrupted his thoughts. "You said these soldiers carried crossbow and ballista?"

"I don't know," Eddard replied, glad for the distraction since Barristan already knew what the Americans held. "They carried their weapons like they were crossbow and ballista." Turning around, Eddard saw the two score archers the Kingsguard knight had summoned to deter the Americans from attacking. If they were anything like crossbows, they would fire with a twitch of the lever but would take too long to re-arm in time, for him, the Kingsguard, and the numerous Stark and Baratheon guards standing nearby.

"And not a sword among them?" Renly chuckled. "We seem to have come across the most craven band of bandits in all of Westeros."

"Or ones that don't expect to fight in melee." Ser Barristan said, his eyes continuing to gaze forward. A frown began to form on his face. "If what you said was true, Lord Hand, I hear them coming." As the experienced knight said, Eddard soon heard the distant rumbles of the American wheelhouses. As they drew closer, his gaze turned to Lord Renly, no longer smiling and his lips pursed in a thin line.

Robert sucked in a breath when they finally appeared, emerging from the forest as they did yesterday. "Seven Hells, Ned, you weren't lying." Eddard didn't respond, his gaze on the soldiers as they disembarked, noting that their weapons were not directed towards them so much as towards the lines of archers behind him. "Not about their wheelhouses - and not about their women warriors, either."

Captain Zoeckler soon separated from the rest of the soldiers, his emotions unreadable beneath the black glass covering his eyes. "King Robert, I presume?"

Robert snorted. "Captain Zoeckler."

The Captain nodded. "I will ask that you and your men take a few steps back. Our leaders will be here soon."

To the left of Robert, Renly put on a charming smile. "What for?" He asked, innocently. "They do realize they are meeting a King, do they not?"

"Yes. They're coming in..." The Captain trailed off. "A different vehicle than we did. Larger."

Robert quirked an eyebrow. "Larger?" He asked, staring at the Captain, who gave a curt nod. He chuckled, tapping Ser Barristan on the shoulder to get his attention. "I'll hold you to that," the King promised, stepping back. As he did so, Eddard and the rest followed. What sort of... vehicle, could be larger than even their wheelhouses? How could it move? He got his answer a few minutes later. It started when they heard another noise, in the distance. Eddard thought it another rumble, but as it drew closer he realized that there was a more apt description: beating wings. Barristan saw it first. Eddard heard him suck in a hurried breath, his eyes locked on the horizon.

"Ser Barristan?" Eddard was concerned, wondering what could frighten the veteran knight of numerous wars.

Ser Barristan took a moment to reply. "It's flying." Flying? Eddard turned his eyes to the horizon, focusing in on the object in the distance.

The whole world seemed to freeze at that moment. Robert noticed too. "Seven Hells," his friend muttered, as it drew closer: a grey beast, two wings atop two arms beating as it drew closer, moving at such a speed that Eddard could only see a blurred circle where it was. He turned around, trying to gauge the reaction among the Westrosi in attendance. Lord Renly was staring dumbly at the vehicle as it approached, his smile having abandoned him. Behind him, the archers were muttering, staring upward with wide eyes as the beating wings grew louder. The numerous smallfolk and noble courtiers gathered to see the newcomers, however, were hysterical.

"Dragon!" Eddard wasn't sure who among the crowd screamed first - yet it brought more screams afterward. Some were frozen still, the whole of their attention on the approaching craft. Others were kneeling on the ground, praying salvation from the Old Gods and the New. Many more were running, panicked and terrified, little more than a herd of panicked sheep. Eddard looked forward, back at the American soldiers. The strange glass over their eyes concealed their emotions well, but he could see their discomfort and wariness as they beheld the madness that took over the crowd.

Ser Barristan acted first. "Ser Meryn secure the right! Ser Boros, the left! Each of you takes half the guards here. archers, remain where you are! I want order brought to this lot before the Americans arrive!" The two Kingsguard nodded, calling men to them as they raced to the crowd. The Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, wasn't here. His sister the Queen thought that it would be a waste of her time to meet with barbarians, and her eldest son agreed. They had instead gone for a walk away from the Inn, accompanied by Lannister guards and members of the court. Not his daughters, however - he made sure they were with Septa Mordane.

As it was nearing the ground, the arms tilted upward, and Eddard saw two men in the front of the vehicle making quick hand movements, fingers flying up and down as they touched the boxes inside. Are they controlling it? Are these their leaders? He couldn't imagine placing such flying vehicles in the hands of anyone else but skilled leaders and rulers. As it landed, Eddard saw the wings slow down until he realized it was not a single wing on each arm, but three smaller ones, each shaped like a blade. Before he could look further, however, he saw something fall down in the back, and soldiers emerged from the back of the vehicle.

They were similar to the American soldiers, but the colors they wore were a darker shade of greens and browns, arranged in irregular squares than shapeless splotches. Their weapons looked identical, however, and they wore the same, dark glass over their eyes. Splitting into two teams of four, they crouched near the vehicle, heads turning left and right as they took into account their allies behind them, the King in front of them, and the slowly calming mass of smallfolk and courtiers beyond.

One of them spoke into a box on their armor, and soon, another group of soldiers was leaving the vehicle, only these were escorting three other individuals. At their front was a Summer Islander, dressed in grey pants and tunic which opened at the top, revealing a sky-blue shirt underneath from which hung a strip of blue cloth the color of the deep sea.

He was flanked by the second man, his skin reminding Eddard of a Dornishman. He wore a dark tunic, blue pants, and a black hat on top, decorated with ribbons, badges, and star-bearing pauldrons. He was mirrored by the third man, dressed in a similar fashion, differentiated by a white hat, a red stripe running down each side of his pants - and a sword that hung at his side. Instead of the double-edged longsword favored by the Westerosi, it was a single, curved edge, not unlike the arakhs preferred by the Dothraki.

That alone told him what he needed to know. From his gait alone, the man in front wasn't a warrior, he was sure of that. Of the merchant class, perhaps. The other two men, however, bore hints of muscle and leanness through their clothes, their steps precise and measured. They were warriors.

But not nobles. Arya claimed the Americans said they had no lords or knights. "King Robert," the man in front said in a smooth voice, extending a hand forward. "I greet you in the name of the United States of America and its people." Robert reached forward and shook his hand. "I am Foreign Service Officer Faraj Morris, here to negotiate on behalf of the Government."

When he withdrew his hand, the man on the right of him extended his, and Morris continued. "This is Brigadier General Sean Belrose, commander of the US Army forces here." Then, there was one, remaining, the one with the sword. "Last but not least, this is Colonel Jacob Lyon," the last man extended his hand, his eyes staring right into the King's own. "Commander of the US Marine Corps, who will be acting as guards for this meeting." Marines? Eddard thought. It explained the different uniforms, but what would Marines be doing on land? Did they consider their flying vehicles ships?

Robert followed Morris' introduction with his own, introducing his brother, Ser Barristan, and Eddard himself. "We'll be meeting in the Inn behind us." Robert began, "I cleared it out beforehand, we'll be the only ones inside."

Faraj smiled, "Thank you, Your Grace."

The Colonel's eyes flickered to Robert. "Your Grace, would it be possible for my marines to check inside the Inn first? I don't believe you have any ill intentions towards us, but I would rather be safe than sorry."

Robert quirked an eyebrow. "Send them in," He said. "All you'll find is a platter of bread and salt."

"Thank you." The Colonel turned to one of the marines accompanying him. "Sergeant, check the Inn, make sure no one's hiding inside."

"Aye, Aye, sir." The sergeant waved to the other marines, "On me," and they converged on the Inn. Eddard turned to look at the other members of their party. Ser Barristan's face had a faint note of disapproval on it: he didn't think that un-knighted men should be referred to as 'Ser.'

A few minutes later, the Marines returned from the Inn. "Area is clear, sir. Nobody is inside."

"Thank you, Sergeant Roy," Officer Faraj said. "Shall we, gentlemen?"

Eddard's eyes flickered over to the riders, still sitting in their vehicle. Colonel Lyon must have noticed. "Our aviators will be staying with their aircraft," He said, "if that's what you're wondering." Eddard nodded, as he considered the implications. They are not in a position to make decisions. If they were, they would have been invited along as a matter of courtesy. Instead, they were treated like the common soldier, told to sit still and wait for their commander to make a decision. It worried him, that they would treat their riders, aviators, in such a way, and that they could treat them in such a way.

They sat around a table inside, a platter of bread and salt laid out already. When the Americans turned to look at the Westrosi, Eddard answered. "Guest Right. Partake in this meal with us, and neither of us shall harm the other." The Americans accepted this without complaint, joining in when the Westrosi took the first bite. They are civilized, Eddard noted, but wary. When they had finished, Robert began to talk immediately.

"Tell me what you Americans want here." Robert was much like his hammer, direct, and to the point. Faraj blinked, hard, while the two officers better controlled their surprise.

"I will warn you that without context, this will seem incredibly rude and demanding." Faraj let out a deep sigh. "But if you must know directly, we want to build, maintain, and operate a military base inside of the Seven Kingdoms."

The audacity! Looking at Robert, Eddard could see he entertaining similar thoughts, his face growing red. Yet, as the King grew angry, Renly only smiled. "I'd prefer the context, then." He said.

The Brigadier General nodded. "Approximately seven days ago one of our cities, Topeka, reported that there was a strange, glowing gate that appeared in the middle of a road through the city. Upon mobilizing our military forces, we discovered that it was, in fact, a connection to what we now know as the Seven Kingdoms." Eddard couldn't help but think it was absurd. Flying vehicles - aircraft, was one thing. Magical portals to distant lands was another. Belrose, meanwhile, gestured towards Colonel Lyon. "Colonel Lyon and the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit were one of the first ones through." The man gave a curt nod but said nothing. "Chiefly through their use of aircraft, they discovered signs of civilization: stone roads, and people traveling on it."

"Your aircraft is too loud for that," Eddard noted. "We would have heard at least rumors of it by now."

The colonel shrugged. "We don't just have Ospreys at our disposal, Lord Stark. We also have other kinds of aircraft, including quieter ones." He shot a meaningful look at Eddard. "Ones that wouldn't draw as much attention, unless you were familiar with them beforehand and were looking for them."

"Do you have proof?"

Brigadier General Sean nodded. "It happened a day after I and the Army forces under my command arrived on the other side. Colonel Lyon reported that they had spotted some children playing in the river north of our position - your daughter, and Mycah. A company of men under Captain Zoeckler was sent out, during which time, Prince Joffery and your other daughter showed up, and were involved in an altercation of some kind."

"You could have had men who were watching beforehand." In truth, Eddard was feeling less certain, as his mind drifted towards other things. Sansa had been less forthcoming with what had happened, and while her sister had told everything she could to Eddard. If what Arya said was true...

"If I did," Colonel Lyon spoke up, "Then either my Marines are the best in the Corps, or your men need a lesson on tracking." Eddard turned to face the Colonel, who continued. "We saw them, all on horseback, sent after you left the Inn and your daughters inside."

Renly laughed, the sudden noise drawing the attention of everyone in the room. "Well Lord Stark, it seems they do have proof."

"What this comes down to," Farij looked between them, "Is that the United States currently has a gateway leading into your world in the middle of one of our cities. Since your end is in the middle of a clearing and is undeveloped, we were hoping to build a base to secure our newfound border, paving the way for future diplomacy."

"Or conquest," Barristan said, his gaze locked with Robert's. "Your Grace, I would beg you remember that Dragonstone used to be a Valyrian trading post before the Targaryens conquered the whole of Westeros."

Brigadier General Belrose slightly scowled at Ser Barristan, his mouth opening up when Farij put out a hand. "I can assure you, that the United States does not have any such intentions with Westeros. Our only concern is to protect our borders, that's all."

"Words are wind." King Robert said, cutting off the argument. "Agreeing to anything right now would make me as mad as Aerys." He shook his head, before focusing on Farij. "I would need to see this 'gate' and this city before I make a decision."

Farij nodded. "Reasonable, Your Grace. It isn't too far from here: judging by the speed of your horsemen, you could make it there by noon if you depart in the morning. We'll have our Humvees - those vehicles the soldiers rode in - out on the Kingsroad to mark where it is for you."

Robert's eyebrows lifted. "Tomorrow, again? You want this to be over with soon, don't you?"

Farij pursed his lips. "It's in the best interests of the United States and the Seven Kingdoms that an agreement is made soon."

Before anything else could be said, a box resting on Sergeant's chest made a strange noise - like the ripping of parchment. "Risky-1 this is Risky-3 - we've got knights outside trying to force their way onto the Osprey, over."

Eddard wasn't sure what had happened. One moment, they were sitting down, having civilized (if not pleasant,) conversation. The next, they were all standing up. Eddard's hands were frozen to Ice, Barristan had his sword and shield ready, while Renly and Baratheon were holding daggers in their hands. Their guardsmen were standing next to them, their weapons raised. The Marines, likewise, were pointing their weapons at them, Farij stepping back with a panicked look on his face as Colonel Lyon and Brigadier General Belrose stood their ground, Lyon's hands wrapped around the sword at his side.

The Colonel was glaring at him. "You have a strange idea of 'Guest Right,' Lord Stark."

"They're not ours!" Eddard grit out, even as some of the Marines weapons twitched in his direction. What bunch of heedless fools-

The Marine Sergeant spoke into the box. "Risky-3 this is Risky-1. Can you describe who's forcing their way onto the Osprey, over?"

"Risky-1 this is Risky-3. Contact is a tall male in golden armor-"

"Lannister." If it were possible, Eddard's fingers gripped his sword more tightly. "Always the damned Lannisters..!" Looking up, Eddard noticed the stares of the Americans in the room on him. He needed to leverage this, while he could. "I could stop Jaime Lannister." He said. "Let me outside, and I can tell him to stand down."

The Brigadier General continued staring at him for a long moment, flickering over to the Sergeant. "Let him know Lord Stark is leaving to de-escalate the situation," he said, forcefully.

Eddard didn't wait- he rushed towards the door, nearly kicking it open before remembering the door opened inwards. He nearly ripped it off with his arms then, stepping outside and getting a glance at the situation.

The soldiers were no longer near their Humvees - and were now clustered around the Osprey, weapons pointed out in a circle around them. A few of the archers nearby glanced at him, but the majority had their bows at the ready, pointing at the Americans. The two Kingsguard were standing by them. What struck out to Eddard were the red-armored, red-cloaked Lannister guardsmen, who had nearly encircled the Americans. And leading them...

"Ah, Lord Stark." Jaime Lannister's drawl had always grated on Eddard, none more so than now. The Kingslayer was standing several paces away from the Americans, unbothered by the three weapons pointed at his golden breastplate. "I was wondering where you had gone."

"Lannister," He looked around, seeing he had nearly everyone's attention now. "Take your guards and step away from the Americans."

The Kingslayer merely smiled. "I'm afraid I'm acting on royal orders, Lord Hand."

"My orders," Cersei's voice carried through the silent air easily, standing closer to the Inn than her brother was, surrounded by her guards. Eddard turned to face her. "These Americans refused to let us through to see King Robert, and we had feared the worst."

Eddard looked at her for a moment, before looking at the circle of American soldiers. "Captain Zoeckler?" He asked, finding him near the center of the group.

"The Lannisters told us to get out of the way." His weapon, Eddard noticed, was aimed directly at the Queen. "We informed them that would be impossible, and that King Robert was currently in a meeting with government officials inside the Inn. When they made to push through us instead, we told them to stop or be shot. They drew swords, we pointed rifles, and here we are Lord Stark." Why though? There was enough room to walk around - the Redcloaks wouldn't have gotten around if there wasn't. Why did the queen insist on -

Grass. The Osprey was, true to the American's word, much larger than the Humvees. Only now did Eddard realize that it took up nearly the whole road leading to the Inn. Looking further down the road, he saw the Queen's Wheelhouse sitting there, horses standing idle. A 'walk' she said. The Queen wanted the Americans to move because she didn't want to walk on the grass. "All of you," Eddard began to speak, struggling to keep his tone calm. "Put down your weapons, step away from the Americans. They have done nothing wrong."

Cersei turned to him, a sick smile on her face. "I was not aware the Hand outranked the Queen." She said, loudly. "Unless you-"

She was interrupted by a booming voice from inside the Inn. "Seven Hells woman!" Turning around, Eddard noticed that the door was still wide open, allowing Robert to hear every word of their conversation. "Listen to my damned Hand!"

Cersei's smile turned to a frown, as the Lannister soldiers looked to one another. Slowly, hesitantly, they returned their swords to their scabbards and backpedaled, as the archers removed the arrows from their bows. The Kingslayer was the last to comply, sheathing his sword with a sour expression on his face as the Americans slowly pointed their weapons, no, rifles they called them, back down.

With that, it wasn't long before Eddard was rejoined by the King and the Americans who were negotiating with them. When asked if they could resume talks tomorrow, Farij took a minute to answer. "Before, it could have been done. With how everything went down at the last minute, though... two days, now, at least. Could be another week. We'll keep you informed what's going on daily, however."

Eddard only nodded at this. The Americans gave tense farewells, before loading into their Humvees and Osprey. Eddard's eyes were fixed on the Osprey, watching it lift into the skies as he heard murmured words from all around. As it began to fade in the horizon, a stray thought struck him: if this was what the Americans brought to negotiate, what would they bring to war?


	3. SANSA I

**SANSA**

It had been a week and a half after Sansa had first met the Americans, and now the Royal entourage was to arrive at the American City of 'Topeka.' Her sister, upset with how the butcher's boy stopped playing with her, changed moods abruptly and refused to sleep until Septa Mordane forced her to. All Sansa could think about was how her prince wouldn't be joining her in visiting this strange and foreign land.

Sansa was sure the whole thing had been a misunderstanding. After what had happened the first day, the Queen was present at every meeting since with the Americans as a sign of good faith. The Americans however, were said to take it as a slight. The Queen went as far as to say that the Americans insulted her and the noble house of Lannister grievously. _Probably because the Americans are lordless foreigners_, Sansa had thought, riding her mare on the road, _they'd be no more adept at courtly manners than the smallfolk would._

Regardless of what happened, the results were clear to Sansa. The Queen, the Royal Family, and much of the Royal Caravan were to travel to Castle Darry by means of another route. Meanwhile, Father, the King, and Lord Renly and others including her were to travel to the American city on the Kingsroad. She asked Father why the Royal Family couldn't come along, and he only said that they were not needed for the negotiations: only the King was. She was sure that there was something else, but Father refused to say anything.

"What do you think their city will be like?" Sansa looked up at Arya's words, who was riding alongside her. Next to her sister's legs was her Direwolf, Nymeria, panting happily as she walked along. Glancing down, Sansa thought that Lady looked more dignified, her mouth closed and head tilted upward, and felt a glimmer of satisfaction.

"I'm not sure," Sansa replied, pulling the Direwolf along as it tried to slip her leash. "Magical in some way, but I don't know beyond that." As much as the Americans insisted otherwise, there was no doubt that their equipment and vehicles were the work of sorcerous powers. She couldn't help but think of the marvels and horrors of old Valyria, who took to the skies as the Americans had.

Arya sat thoughtfully in her saddle, looking at the road for a moment before replying. "Maybe like Dorne?" She turned to Sansa again. "Do you know how a Dornish city is like?"

Sansa already knew why Arya had thought of that. "No, Arya," she said, shaking her head at her sibling's foolishness. "Just because Americans have women soldiers doesn't mean that they're like Dorne."

Arya tried to defend her question. "Dorne has those too! And when I talked to them about it, they are much like the Dornish."

Sansa couldn't help but shiver. Even in the North, you could hear tales of Dornish depravity, loose morals, and madness. Still... "In what way?" The thought of the Americans being anything like the Dornish repulsed her - but she couldn't help but wonder morbidly on how they're alike.

"In many ways," Father's words cut through the air, and Sansa obediently turned to look at him, riding ahead of her and her sister. "The Americans swore to be courteous towards us, however - I expect you to do the same."

"Yes Father," Sansa said, as Arya merely nodded her head. A few minutes of silent riding later, she saw the Americans ahead, flanking the Kingsroad with two of their Humvees, one on each side. Curious, she looked at the sigils on their chest, trying to tell which one was in charge. Despite their insistence on not having knights, the Americans didn't mind to indulge in heraldry. From the flags on the Americans' shoulders (brightly colored at first, but increasingly replaced by a green-and-black variation the more she saw them,) to the coat of arms underneath and on the other shoulder, to even the rank on their chest.

The system still eluded her in its entirety, but she did learn some things. Among them that having three inverted chevrons meant they were a sergeant at the least, any less a regular soldier (with the exception of one that looked like an inverted raindrop) and any different an officer. Looking at the assembled soldiers, she found one that was wearing a gold line on their chest. His face seemed strange, however, slimmer than she thought it had been. "That's one of them," Arya whispered to her as they rode along. "One of the women soldiers."

Sansa blushed, "I saw that Arya," she said, realizing her mistake, and also corrected herself. The Americans weren't as bad as the Dornish: They at least they made clear who was a man and who was a woman. The Americans didn't seem to care at all! She noticed something over the tree line. "What's that?"

"That," Father said, "was how the Americans came to Westeros." They passed through the last of the trees, into a large clearing cut in half by the Kingsroad. Sansa nearly let go of Lady's leash at the sight.

It looked like the gods had taken a sword to the world. An arch stood, towering over her and the trees. The edges were impossibly smooth, yet were like malformed glass - blending the browns, greens, and blues of the Riverlands forest behind it into a strange, blurry mixture. Sansa struggled to figure out how large it was until she saw men walking around right next to it. She estimated it to have been the width of seven American Humvees, and it was four times that high.

It opened to a long, black road that stretched to the horizon, covered with stripes, lines, and symbols in yellow and white. It was guarded by hundreds of soldiers and dozens of vehicles, arranged in defensive positions with their weapons pointing at the other side. The two foremost vehicles were larger than smallfolk huts, with a wide, short turret on top. Like a lance of a knight, a hollow metal rod jutted out from the center of the turret, and Sansa could see two additional weapons on top of the vehicle.

"Sansa, Arya," Her father called out, and she realized she and her sister were frozen in their seats. Looking to meet his eyes, Sansa couldn't believe how calm they looked, before she remembered that Father had seen the... Arch, before. Still, she noticed how his eyes were trying to force themselves back to the Arch, ensnared by the sight. "Keep riding."

Sansa nodded. "Yes, Father." Tearing her eyes from the arch, she turned to look at the American camp itself. On the sides of the arch, a number of olive-green tents had been set up. They seemed oddly solid in the breeze, unbending as the wind passed through. There were also a handful of thin, metal poles that were erected: they might have served as a post for a banner, but there was nothing there. Flanking that were two lines of American vehicles. There were familiar Humvees there, she noticed, but there were also a host of other vehicles, including some taller ones, with six wheels. However... "Where's the Osprey?"

Arya answered her. "Behind us." Turning around in her saddle, Sansa noticed that the American camp extended to the other side of the clearing as well. Instead of grass, there was a long line of flat dirt, and Sansa saw the Osprey sitting there, its wings folded up. There were some others there, too, looking like poor statues of birds with wings that were too long, lacking feathers and feet, decorated with stars and stripes, and covered in the American's writing. She couldn't tell what it said - despite sharing a tongue with the Americans, the text was alien to her.

Soon enough, they came to a stop in front of the Arch, and Sansa turned to see a small group of men and women standing in front of it. The Colonel and General were standing in front, surrounded by a group of similarly-dressed men and women. Sansa thought it must have been a gathering of the American officers, only to spot sets of chevrons on some of the men's shoulders. Faraj Morris, of course, continued to dress differently than them but was now surrounded by a group of similarly-dressed men with dark glass over their eyes and a piece of clear jewelry coming out of their ears. The man smiled and spoke. "Good morning, your Grace. If I may, I would like to reiterate the plan we laid out with your party."

From her position, Sansa only saw that back of the King's head as he nodded. "You may, Mister Morris." Before they traveled to America, Father made sure to lecture her and Arya on proper forms of address for the Americans. 'Mister' was used in a manner similar to Ser, though Arya said 'Magister' at first.

"Thank you, your Grace." Mister Morris stepped forward and gestured to a map on a nearby table. "Good morning, lords, ladies, and guests of the Seven Kingdoms! I would like to welcome you to the United States of America. I am sorry we can't afford to greet you more warmly, but that is what we hope to change today."

"Meeting with your leader, you mean," Lord Renly cut in. He was a little behind the King, allowing Sansa to read his expression. He smiled bravely, but she couldn't miss the way his eyes darted to and from the Arch. "The President?"

"That is correct, Lord Baratheon," Mister Morris pointed to the map below him, tracing a path to the roads. The map looked unbearably plain to Sansa, lacking direction of any kind and showing no more than the roads and buildings of the city, Topeka. "As we agreed before, and cleared with your Kingsguard, this is the route we are going to take, straight to the Kansas State Capitol. Once there, we will treat you to lunch before negotiations begin."

At that, the King let out a mighty laugh. Sansa smiled at that: the sound somehow bringing to mind the rare moments Father smiled. "A feast? If you had started with that we'd already be through." A chorus of laughter rang from the crowd, and not just from the Westrosi.

General Belrose, however, only smiled slightly. As the laughter died down, he spoke. "A man after my own heart, your Grace." The smile died then, turning to a serious expression. "Before we travel through, however, I have a few things to go over. When you first pass through, you may feel strange or uneasy," a few murmurs passed through the crowd at that, and Sansa could see an uncomfortable expression wedge itself onto the American faces. "Nothing harmful, as far as we can tell, but if you do feel hurt or sick, or just not right, let us know _immediately._ If nothing's wrong, go along the path indicated by the Soldiers, Marines, and the Topeka Police. Do not, and I repeat, _do not_ attempt to deviate from the path indicated for you. It is as much for your own safety as it is for ours, and frankly, there isn't much you're going to be missing: the whole city has been evacuated. Any questions?"

Sansa couldn't imagine anything like that. An entire city, empty of people? It was hard to see Winter Town being completely empty, perhaps the Americans had a different size in mind when they thought of a city? Before she could ask, however, she was interrupted. "What are Police?"

General Belrose blinked, almost stunned to silence for a moment. One of the women soldiers, with a strange shapeless cap on her head, turned to look at the General, confusion writ on her face. "Law enforcement, hunts down criminals, investigates crimes, and so on." _A city watch, then,_ Sansa thought. She wondered how they would look like: perhaps like the soldiers she saw before, only with a different pattern of fabric for their uniform. "Is that all?" At the ensuing silence, General Belrose nodded. "Let's go, then.

Sansa braced herself, forcing her mare through the Arch as she was reminded of her time as a child, when she, Arya, and Jeyne were taught to swim in a pond of water near Winterfell. The way the water pressed up against her skin was so much like the sensation of passing through the Arch. That should have made it familiar, but it was only foreign to her. Despite the pressure, she was left completely dry as she passed through, and she couldn't help but shudder as the sensation pressed against her hair, feeling like the Arch was caressing it as Mother would. As soon as it came, though, it was over, and she fell into place behind her father, riding through the streets of Topeka.

Sansa thought it was a dreary place, even with the bright, mid-day sun hanging overhead. The streets were empty of smallfolk, and in their place was an army of armed men and women. No matter where she turned her head, Sansa couldn't go without seeing a Soldier, Marine, or the Police standing guard.

One of the Police was holding a black box in front of their face, and Sansa remembered how the Americans could talk through them. It was magical to Sansa, and she was ecstatic when the Americans indulged her desire to try talking through one to Arya. Yet, her father seemed to be somehow afraid of the things, and she couldn't understand why.

"They have lots of glass," Arya interrupted her thoughts. Sansa turned to look at her, raising an eyebrow. "The buildings - they all have glass windows."

Sansa turned to look at the buildings lining the streets and found herself stunned. Arya was right: the Americans had lined their buildings with glass. Some were dirty, and Sansa couldn't imagine what sort of man would let them fall into such a state, but others were so polished and clean that Sansa could see her reflection as she rode past. It seemed a shame that it was wasted on such ugly designs: square-like buildings without roofs, in many cases. She wondered, briefly, if she could convince Father to buy a mirror to take back with them.

It was not far to the Capitol, however, and soon Sansa was dismounting. When she looked at the building, she gave up trying to understand American design. Atop a rectangular base was a short tower, a figure in weathered bronze perched on top. A field of trimmed grass and oak trees surrounded the Capitol, broken apart by stone pathways leading to the entrances. Suited men patrolled the perimeter, like the ones with Faraj, and more stood guard at the entrances. Lastly, a sea of tables was set on the grass, with many small, round ones that were set in front of a long, rectangular table. And on each of them...

Sansa made sure to close her mouth tightly, swallowing the water on her tongue. The Americans had prepared a feast for them and had set out food and drink on every table. Two of the suited men walked towards the King, stopping a respectful distance away from him. "Your Grace," one of them with skin as dark as dirt said, "your seat, as well as the Hand, his daughters, and Lord Baratheon is at the high table along with the President."

The man never gave his name, Sansa noticed. "May I have your name, Ser?" Unlike the soldiers, the men wore no means of identifying them, or of their rank or status.

The man shook his head. "I am just an agent of the Secret Service, Lady Stark."

Sansa nodded, accepting the polite decline for what it was. However... "And what does the Secret Service do? I've seen you protecting Mister Morris, as well as the building, here."

"Among other things, to protect the President, Lady Stark." _Like the Kingsguard,_ Sansa thought. Would these be the best of the American's warriors? There were many more than seven, she noted and didn't think it possible the Americans would more skilled warriors than the Seven Kingdoms did. _They must have lower standards to accept so many,_ she thought, nodding, as they were led to the high table, seated from the right side inward. The left side was filled with four empty seats sitting tucked in behind the table.

Now that she was close, Sansa could see the food the Americans had brought. The first among them a plate full of chicken wings and pork ribs, dripping with a red-orange sauce that stained the white plate beneath it. An apple pie sat next to it, already cut into pieces revealing it's glistening amber interior with the crust layered with white cream sprinkled with brown spice. Last within reach was a platter of stacked buns, cut in half and stuffed with ruffled lettuce, succulent meat, and melted cheese, surrounded by a wreath of golden-brown, finger-long and stick-thin strips dusted with salt. Meant for her was a single glass goblet, so fine as to be nearly clear, and Sansa picked it up, tilting it to see the glass glint with the mid-day light.

"So," King Robert began, eyeing the food and drink on the table intently, "When is the President going to be here with us?"

The agent from before spoke up, "President Thomas will be arriving after everyone's been seated." He, along with the Kingsguard, remained standing as Sansa turned to look at the tables. Against her fears, the Americans did understand rank: lower-ranked soldiers and guardsmen were seated on the outer tables, while the nobility and American officers on the inside. The quality and presentation of the food remained the same throughout, though, and Sans couldn't help but remember the American's words: no knights, no lords, and no Kings.

As the last stragglers found their seats, Mister Morris stepped forward, smiling as he held an empty glass goblet in his right hand, and in his left a polished spoon. he struck it lightly and quickly, the resulting ring drawing all eyes to him. "Lords, Ladies, and my Fellow Americans, I ask that you please rise for the President of the United States: Mister Roland Thomas."

As everyone began to stand up, a group of nearby musicians moved as one and began to play together. Trumps, flutes, and many more instruments played in absolute synchronicity. It was a powerful, booming song, and Sansa couldn't help but be transfixed.

"Group, Attention!" One of the Army officers shouted. "Present, Arms!" The right hand of each Soldier and Marine snapped upward to their brow, as the doors opened and the President left the building.

He was completely surrounded: two of the Secret Service at his front and rear, with the Colonel and General flanking him on his sides. The man himself wore an outfit similar to his bodyguards, a black surcoat with black pants, a white undershirt, and a piece of fabric in even blue-and-red stripes around his neck. He wasn't fit, nor unfit, and had no striking features: only plain, brown eyes and hair, which was shaved from his eyes down, but merely short on top. He greeted the King first, speaking quietly as he shook his hand once, before moving onto Father, Lord Renly, and then to her.

He smiled, and now that he was close Sansa could see a small American flag pinned to the side of his chest. "I'm pleased to meet you, Lady Stark. You must be Sansa?"

He held out his hand, and Sansa took it into hers and softly shook it. "Yes, Mister President. It's a pleasure to meet you."

He nodded. "Pleasure's all mine, Lady Stark." He let go of her hand and she followed suit as he moved to Arya, sitting last at the table. "And you must be Arya," he said, "Pleased to meet you as well."

Arya extended her hand warily towards him, and the man responded with a gentle shake. After a too-long moment, she spoke. "You too, Mister President."

The President only seemed to smile more at that, releasing his hand as he moved behind his seat, next to the General, Colonel, and Mister Morris. The song cut out, and the President returned the gesture given by the soldiers. "As you were. Everyone, please be seated." As Sansa did so, the President continued to speak.

"Good afternoon, Lords and Ladies of Westeros! I am President Roland Thomas, the elected leader of the United States of America. With us today are the distinguished servicemen and officers of the Twenty-Sixth Marine Expeditionary Unit and the First Stryker Brigade Combat Team of the First Armored Division. I'd like to offer you a taste of American hospitality, and invite you to partake in traditional American food with us. The waiters you see off to the side," he indicated a group of well-dressed men in black-and-white outfits, "will replenish whatever you eat, and will upon request provide beverages. Before we do, though," he said, as the King's hand slowly drew back from where it was, "I would like to take a minute of silence. Pray to your gods if you wish, and if you do not, I ask you to be quiet for those that do."

At that, the President bowed his head, closed his eyes, and clasped his hands, a gesture that was replicated by many of his soldiers. Some spoke quietly, murmuring a prayer to their gods while others remained silent, and some others merely watched. One by one, they opened their eyes and looked up. When the last did so, they began feasting.

Sansa sampled the delicacies the Americans placed before her, including the 'Hamburgers,' 'French Fries,' and the 'Buffalo Wings.' The last was exceedingly spicy, and Sansa didn't try another bite. Sansa moved to the apple pie. When she picked up a piece, however, the cream was as cold as snow! She looked to the President, who was talking with the King about something, though what Sansa couldn't tell. When there was a lull in the conversation, she spoke. "Excuse me, Mister President?" The man turned to her, and she continued, "can you please tell me what is on top of the pie?"

"That would be Ice Cream, Lady Stark, with cinnamon on top." the President explained. "It's an American dessert. You can think of it as frozen milk? There's some more to it, but I'm not aware of the details." Curious, Sansa lifted the pie to her mouth and bit down. She stiffened.

"Sansa?" Father asked, and Sansa swallowed quickly. "Are you alright?"

She shook her head up and down. "Y-yes. It was just very sweet, that's all." Sansa had a taste for sweet things, to be sure, but this seemed _overly_ sweet.

"Sorry about that," the President said, an apologetic smile on his face. "Americans like our food to be much sweeter than what you're used to."

"And your wine unwatered," King Robert spoke then, as a waiter refilled his glass goblet with wine as dark and red as blood. As the waiter moved on, Robert lifted the glass to his lips, nearly downing the vintage in a single gulp. "Good stuff, this. Where is it from?" Sansa, meanwhile, focused back on the rest of the pie. Now that she knew what to expect, she was hungry for more.

Eventually, however, Sansa found herself full of food and drink (the Americans were determined not to give her wine of any kind, only sweetened juices.) President Thomas stood up and addressed the audience. "So," He asked, still smiling, "How was it?" A chorus of approving voices and calls broke out, and he nodded. "I'll pass your compliments to the cooks," he said, "As King Robert and I meet, I'll invite you to tour the Kansas State Capitol in the meantime." At that, Father, the King, Lord Renly, and the Kingsguard left with the President and his retinue, leaving her in the care of Septa Mordane as they walked inside the structure.

Sansa expected it to have been dark inside, but the Americans lit it with lights like the ones in their Humvees. Sansa thought it odd that something the size of a holdfast was so lavishly decorated, with polished floors, statues of white stone, and murals on the walls. She couldn't help but stop and stare: they were so real, Sansa thought they might step off the walls and onto the floor.

Sansa heard a quiet huff behind her and saw Septa Mordane with a dark look on her face. "Your sister's slipped away again," she said, and Sansa understood immediately. _Likely talking with the women soldiers._ "Stay here, I'll fetch her." Sansa nodded as the Septa walked off, leaving her to examine the artwork.

One, she thought, was showing a war. Men with wooden rifles stood focused on each other, as two men in blue and gray uniforms lay dead on the ground. Between them stood a giant, arms spread wide with a book in one hand and a rifle in his right, with a crazed look in his eyes that she couldn't help but shiver from seeing.

Prominently displayed were two flags, waving against the smoke-filled sky. One was the American Flag, though Sansa noted there were fewer stars then what she remembered. The other bore strong resemblance: a red field, with an azure saltire inlaid with stars.

"I see you've taken an interest in the John Brown Mural, Lady Stark." Sansa jumped at the words, berating herself for not noticing the Army officer standing next to her, his hazel eyes gazing at the artwork.

"Captain Zoeckler?" She asked, noticing the two bars on his shoulders. The man nodded once. "And yes, I had, Captain. Can you please tell me more about it?"

He nodded again, quiet for a moment before he spoke, his words carefully measured. "It commemorates the American Civil War, some one-hundred and fifty years ago. John Brown, in the center, was partly responsible for it."

Sansa nodded, recalling the similarity between the flags. _Like the Targaryens and the Blackfyres,_ she thought. "What was it fought over?"

"It would depend on who you ask, Lady Stark." Captain Zoeckler said, and Sansa frowned at that. "People from the South would say it was over state's rights. The North would say it was over slavery."

"Slavery?" Sansa asked, and she shivered at the thought. She knew that the Free Cities had a style of government that was similar to the Americans, but did they also have slaves, too?

"The country was divided at the time. The Northern States had outlawed slavery, while the Southern States legalized it. The Federal Government at the time had a policy of compromising over the issue, and nothing ever happened about it?"

"The Federal Government?" She asked, trying to understand how something like that could happen. _One-half free, one-half slavers? _The North was _different_ than the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, but nothing on the scale of that!

"Think of how you have lords, and you have the King. The King rules all of Westeros, but he gives authority to the lords below them to take care of their area. They still answer to the King in the end, though." Sansa nodded. "In America, we have a system like that: where the States answer to the Federal Government like your lords the King."

"I see, Ser," she said, noting another strange way that America mirrored the Seven Kingdoms. "So..." she swallowed, mulling the words over in her head before trusting herself to speak. "Who won the war?"

"The North." the Captain replied, and Sansa let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "Slavery was abolished thereafter. Worried that we still owned slaves?"

Sansa felt the blood run to her cheeks and her back stiffen. She thought she had concealed her emotions well. "Erm, yes, Ser." Feeling more confident, Sansa spoke up again. "How did the North win, Ser?" She didn't know how the Americans fought, but any war against Slavery could only be just and honorable, filled with great heroes and deeds worthy of song-

"Logistics," The Captain said. "The North could communicate better, move soldiers faster, and supply them frequently where the South struggled to do any of the above. When the South kept losing men, the North kept increasing the size of its army." Sansa blinked at the words.

"I mean," she began again, "were there any great warriors during the war? Ones of great renown?"

"Plenty for the South," he said, "there wasn't a single battle that won the war, Lady Stark. It was a vicious, brutal military campaign that ended because the South couldn't fight as long as the North could."

Sansa flinched. "That's... heartless, Ser." And it was.

For once, the Captain's eyes flicked from the art to her. "It's truth, Lady Stark."


	4. BARRISTAN I

Special Thanks to Mashadarof402 and Rear Mirrors for beta'ing the chapter. 

**BARRISTAN  
**

Barristan couldn't help but feel a hint of trepidation as they separated from the larger group of highborn and guardsmen. As it was, they were completely surrounded by the Secret Service, who nearly lined the walls of the structure and stepped lightly around the halls. They wore identical uniforms: a black surcoat and breeches, a white undershirt, and a strip of black fabric around their necks. It reminded Barristan of the Goldcloaks before the Sack of Kings Landing, before the rot had set into them. They wore no armor, and no swords, but his eyes didn't miss the slight bulge poking beneath their clothes. Why were they so calm?

He looked to the only member of the Kingsguard with him, Ser Boros. The man made a show of looking around and being attentive, but Barristan saw how his eyes moved too quickly, focused on empty spaces too long. He wasn't looking for threats, only pretending he was. It saddened him to know that many of the Kingsguard would have acted the same as him: of them, only the Kingslayer showed competence - and Barristan wouldn't trust him. And neither did the King, given how the Kingslayer and the Americans had nearly come to blows, he and Ser Meryn were sent to protect the rest of the royal family.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Barristan noticed the American delegation slow down before a pair of metal doors and matched their pace, slowly coming to a halt. Their group was made of eleven men. President Thomas, King Robert, Brigadier General Belrose, Lord Stark, Colonel Lyon, Lord Renly, Mister Morris, Ser Boros, two agents of the Secret Service, and him. "We'll be meeting up top for privacy," the President explained, and one of the Secret Servicemen pressed a circle on the side to open it. Barristan had heard of a similar device that was used by the Night's Watch to move men and supplies up the Wall, though, he doubted that it could compare. "Isn't enough room for all of us on the elevator, so some will have to go up first."

"And who will that be?" Robert asked. Barristan couldn't help but look at the crowd on the other side of the room. _Trying to divide us?_

"I was thinking one of our guards each, with the rest of our entourage going up first. We'll wait down here for both our guards to come back, and then ride up and join them."

It would leave the President and the King behind, he noted. Close enough to the crowd to summon guards, perhaps, and it would leave one Kingsguard in the company of the King. His Grace nodded, agreeing with his thoughts. "Ser Boros, escort my Hand and Lord Renly up."

"Yes, your Grace," the group marched their way to the elevator, crowding in as the doors closed, leaving Barristan with his King, and the President.

Robert turned to President Thomas and spoke. "Have anything you want to talk about?"

The President shook his head. "I mean to have our discussion with the rest of your group, your Grace. Unless you think that any should be excluded?"

"I trust my council, Mister President," Robert turned to look at the crowd for a moment before facing the President again. "Are you unwed? I haven't seen your wife anywhere."

"Afraid I am spoken for, your Grace, with a son and a daughter," spoken for, an interesting turn of phrase. "As for why they aren't here, my son is sick right now and my wife doesn't want to leave him. As for my daughter, she's training to be a pilot in the Air Force."

"Pilot?" Robert asked.

The President blinked for a moment, confusion writ across his face before a glimmer of understanding appeared in his eyes. "Right, Marine Corps. The Marines traditionally call their pilots 'aviators,' your Grace. The Air Force, meanwhile, just calls them pilots."

Robert nodded, and Barristan reflected on what he heard. Like the Targaryens, he couldn't help but think. From a young age, even the Targaryen princesses were bonded with a dragon and taught to ride them into battle. Would their pilots be as knights then, he wondered? The privileged few that could be trusted to fly the steel dragons the Americans used?

A small ring ran through the air, then, and the two doors opened. Ser Boros and a Secret Service agent stood inside. The agent looked unmoved, but Ser Boros had a slight shake in his feet. "That'll be us," the President said, gesturing towards the door. "Please go first, your Grace."

Barristan stepped in behind his liege, standing beside his King as an agent pressed a button and the doors closed. Barristan nearly fell when the elevator rose, gripping the wall until he felt secure enough to dare and remove it. It was quiet, with only a light humming filling the air like a swarm of distant insects. Was that how they were being lifted up, Barristan couldn't help but wonder. A swarm of insects that enveloped them, pushing and pulling them upward? Before he could muse more, the movement suddenly stopped, and the doors opened with a familiar ring.

Standing outside the door was their entourage, looking into the elevator like it would close suddenly and consume them. Beyond them, Barristan could see the Secret Service patrolling the floor - in lesser numbers than downstairs, at least. They stepped off, and the President smiled. "Shall we, gentlemen?" They were led to a solar on that floor, with a table and chairs arranged so that the ends were pointed at the door. In the center of it was a platter of bread and salt.

Lord Renly was the first to speak, his eyes looking around the room. "I take it you mean to offer Guest Right to us?" As ever, his tone held a hint of humor and charm that had won him the adoration of the smallfolk and highborn alike.

The President nodded, gesturing to a side of the table as he and his entourage moved to the other. "Unless we have misunderstood the concept, yes." The Americans were earnest. That much could be said. Throughout the discussion, Barristan had watched the two agents of the Secret Service accompanying the President, who mirrored his movements as much as he mirrored theirs. They stood at either side of the President when he sat down, so he and Ser Boros Blount followed.

"Guest Right is offered with any meal," The Hand spoke, taking a seat to the right of the King's. Lord Stark gripped the table, holding his chair in place as it tried to roll away. Why anyone would put wheels on a chair, Barristan wouldn't know. "Bread and salt is merely tradition."

President Thomas nodded at that. "Some misunderstandings are bound to happen. After all, we've only known each other for a week or so."

"And yet to ask for a base on land sworn to His Grace for that," Renly said. Kicking lightly at the ground, his chair rolled slightly, turning to face the President. He smiled, "I must admit though, if you Americans are able to make even a chair interesting, I would certainly be interested in hearing more. Would this be your home, Mister President?"

The President shook his head. "This is the office of the governor of Kansas. I'm just borrowing the Capitol for this meeting, Lord Baratheon."

The King frowned at that, sitting across from the President. "Where is he?" Robert asked, "Why do we meet here, then, and not there?"

"The Governor is currently busy dealing with trying to run his state without being in his office, while also dealing with the evacuation of the citizenry." No matter how much he thought about it, Barristan couldn't help but find that eerie. He had no idea what the city, Topeka, looked like when it was full of people, but it must have been a great number. To know that none of them were here unsettled him. "As for why we aren't hosting this at the White House, it would take you several weeks or months for you to ride there," the President said. "And with the city evacuated as it is, we can have a measure of privacy on a level equal to that of D.C."

"And yet you're here," Lord Stark noted.

It was the Brigadier General, Sean, who spoke next, sitting opposite of Lord Stark. "When you can drive vehicles and fly aircraft, distances aren't so important anymore, Lord Stark." The Hand nodded, and Barristan digested the information. It didn't tell him how large their nation was. Barristan thought. Perhaps they're of a length equal to the Riverlands, but how much of that is city, how much of that farmland? How many smallfolk and magisters do they have, and how many can they call for war?

Barristan spoke. "How large would your realm be, Mister President?"

The man's eyes flickered to him. There was a moment of quiet, as Barristan met the foreigner's stare. He thought Barristan a simple sword. He was Kingsguard, true, but the Lord Commander too. After a moment, the President spoke again. "I'll have one of my staff fetch a map." At his words, one of the agents pressed a finger to the jewelry in his ear, speaking quietly. it was another American device, Barristan realized as the man almost seemed murmur words, one much smaller than the bricks some of the Americans seemed to carry around. "If you don't mind me asking, what is it you do, Sir Barristan?"

"I am the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," he responded, "I protect the King, lead the Kingsguard, and marshal armies in his Grace's name."

President Thomas smiled sheepishly. "My apologies, then, sir."

Not afraid to admit a mistake, Barristan thought and smiled slightly. He took the offered apology. "It is of no import, Mister President. I may lead men into battle, aye, but my first oath above all others is to protect my King."

"Speaking of armies," King Robert spoke, drawing the attention of the room, "Your man, Morris, told me that you wish to keep a base full of soldiers in the middle of my kingdom. I'd like to know why."

The President slightly frowned, an expression that was mirrored by Faraj Morris, and more pronounced on the faces of the Colonel and General. "The portal opened up into the middle of your kingdom?" He asked. He knows something that we do not.

"Aye. And not only in the Riverlands, but next to the Kingsroad too."

"A major road, then," Colonel Lyon deduced, his expression sour and his eyes focused on the King. "One you wouldn't want under influence of a foreign power." Barristan pondered why that would come as a surprise to them, before remembering the smooth, blackened roads that covered the streets of Topeka, flanked by buildings made of glass that shone with infernal light, and steel pillars that hung over them like wizened crones. The only ones able to make roads as they do were the Valyrians. As he drew the comparison, Barristan felt sick to his stomach. _To them, we must seem as beggars._

"You all had an odd expression for a moment," Barristan said, remembering the frowns on the American's faces and trying to avoid drawing comparisons with the mighty Valyrian Freehold. "Is there anything we need to know about?"

The Americans were quiet, their eyes turning to the President, who spoke. "The State of Kansas, where we are right now, is roughly where the center of the continental United States is. Additionally, the portal manifested on top of Interstate 70, a major roadway," Silence filled the room. Barristan didn't miss the implications. The center of their realms, he thought, and next to an important road in both. Barristan had wondered if the portal was some sort of terrible accident, but all he felt now was a sense of tired resignation.

"Well," Renly began, the first to recover. "At least we know the gods have a sense of humor," The jape was poor for a lord known for his wit, but chuckles and thin smiles filled the room anyway as those inside took the opportunity to laugh while they could.

Eddard Stark was perhaps the only man who didn't join in, even as the lips of the stoic Secret Service twitched. "Be it as it may: it leaves us in a troubling place. Whoever controls the portal has a grip on the other," He looked at the President, "What would you offer for a base? What would that entail?"

The President nodded. "First we determine how much of the land will become a military base," his words were clear and concise - likely practiced. "What we're offering right now is that the United States will offer payment immediately to the Seven Kingdoms for the use of the land, and regular payments afterward to continue doing so. While on base, American soldiers and citizens will be subject to American law and not those of the Seven Kingdoms," He paused. "There is more to it, of course, but that is the basics of what we want to do."

The Hand nodded. "I presume you'll want to conduct more diplomacy afterward?"

"If you would like," The President offered, "however, our chief concern is securing the border right now. If you want a closer relationship to the United States of America I'd welcome you. If you want to ignore us afterward I'll say good-bye."

"And the purpose of this base?" Robert asked, "What will you do with it?"

Brigadier General Belrose spoke then. "Bare minimum is watching the portal and guarding access for either side. We won't be deploying soldiers on your soil without cause or your approval, your Grace."

"What cause would justify that?" Lord Renly cut in.

"Among others, self-defense. If somebody is shooting arrows at my men, I'm not going to tell them not to retaliate, or stop them from doing so," It sounded reasonable, but Barristan had spent too much of his life in King's Landing. Already, he could see any number of ways that could be twisted around to justify the Americans doing anything they wanted to.

"Let's say we accept your agreement," King Robert spoke. "How long will you rule the United States, Mister President?"

President Thomas frowned, as Mister Morris spoke for him. "The President has two more years for this term, and another four years if he is re-elected by the American people, your Grace."

Barristan had wondered if he'd misheard. "Just six years? How long is a year?"

"Twelve months," the President replied, "...or three-hundred and sixty-five days." Utter madness. The closest ruler Barristan could think of was the Sealord of Braavos, and even he would rule until his death.

The King grunted at that. "The same as ours, then. So in six years, we can have a new American President who decides he wants to invade my lands."

"While the United States does change Presidents frequently, your Grace," Faraj Morris countered, "We are not fickle. A new President coming into office wouldn't greatly affect relations, your Grace."

Before the argument could continue, however, there was a knocking at the door. Barristan looked back at a moment, before looking at the President. "If I may, Mister President?" The President nodded, and Barristan turned to Ser Boros. For a moment he was irritated with how the Kingsguard knight didn't guard his emotions, contempt writ on his face, before he walked to the door, opening it while his other hand drifted towards his sword.

Outside was a woman, holding a roll of white parchment under her arms, large enough to take up the entire table. She wore the same form of suit that the Americans seemed so fond of, a black surcoat and breeches that matched her eyes and hair. Barristan thought it was improper the way she dressed and wondered what she was doing here before he remembered what he had asked for at the start of the meeting. "Would those be the maps we requested, my lady?"

She nodded. "They are, sir. May I come in?"

"Please do," The President said, and Barristan stepped out of the way to let the woman through. "Thank you for dropping these by, Missus Addison."

"You're welcome, Mister President." She walked to the American side of the table, setting the bundle next to mister Morris before leaving. Barristan noticed that Robert was watching every step until she left the room. She is married, Barristan recalled, remembering that Missus was a title given to married women, not that it would stop Robert from trying.

Barristan had a thought, then. Did Robert even remember what Missus meant? "Missus is used for women who are married, correct?"

The President turned his disapproving eyes from Robert to him. "Yes, Sir Barristan." The Knight quietly enjoyed the victory and the expectation of a silent night.

Before anything further could be said, Faraj removed a smaller map from within the larger pile, setting it down on the table. Barristan looked at it intently, scrutinizing every detail. It was a large, irregular shape, the way that it flared and waved reminding the knight of a banner in the wind. It was divided into forty-eight portions of unequal size, with two additional portions off to the side in their own boxes. Each of them had a star located inside, its purpose eluding Barristan. The Americans had helpfully labeled every division and star, but Barristan couldn't read the American text.

"This," the Colonel began, pointing to a star on the map, "is Topeka." As the Americans had claimed, it was in the center of their nation, and Barristan couldn't help but feel uneasy looking at the number of stars on the map. If each of them were a city the Americans could field a host that was greater than any seen before. The Colonel reached to his side, and Barristan snapped out of his thoughts, watching the Colonel until he pulled out a metal stick from his pocket, pressing the top and pushing a metal point out.

He watched it closely. What was it? A knife, of some sort? He wondered what purpose it served until he brought it down to Topeka, and drew out a thin line a short distance away. A quill, he thought, that had no need for ink. "And this is the distance you traveled from the Inn to the portal on your side, gentlemen." Barristan looked down, mentally drawing out the line across the American's realm, and cursed.

If what the Colonel said was true, this United States was around the size of the Seven Kingdoms! Perhaps a little smaller, Barristan corrected, but it was of little comfort. Facing a kingdom with that much land was daunting enough on its own. For the Americans to be backed with steel dragons and horseless wheelhouses like their Humvees would make it nigh-impossible to defeat them in battle. The rest of the room was quiet, the men around him intently focused on the map and understanding what it meant. It could be that the Americans are lying, he thought. A bold lie, but one that would gain an advantage over them. He decided to test them.

"Would you, perchance, have a more detailed map?" He asked. "I can see the boundaries of your territory, but not any features or landmarks for reference."

"Of course," President Thomas said. "There should have been a satellite map included in the bundle that was brought up."

Farah Morris nodded. "Yes, Mister President." Reaching inside the large roll, he pulled out another map, and Barristan's breath was stolen away from him. It was perhaps the most detailed map he had ever seen, showing the green in the east of the nation fade to sand as it approached West, turning green again for a brief moment before the start of a new sea. Perhaps it was a lie. If it was, the Americans were extraordinarily good liars.

Robert continued to look at the maps for a moment, before turning to look at the President. "The gods do have a sense of humor, it seems." When no-one said anything, he spoke again. "I would like to see one thing before I agree to anything."

"And what might that be, your Grace?" The President asked.

"A demonstration of your weapons," Robert said, his eyes matching the President's own. "The way your soldiers walk, you'd think they could take on the full might of the Seven Kingdoms. I'd like to see why that is."

"That can be arranged," The President said after a moment. "Brigadier General Belrose, when could you get together an exercise for the Westerosi to see?"

The military officer was quiet for a moment, his body still, but Barristan could see that the man was thinking. "If all you're interested in is our infantry, I could have a small arms demonstration set up in two to three days, Mister President. If you want more, it'll take more."

The President nodded at that. "So, what will it be, your Grace?"

His King was quiet for a moment. "I'll see what your infantry can do, Mister President."

"Of course. Is there anything else we need to discuss in the meanwhile?"

Robert looked to the Hand, who was sitting quietly in his chair. "Not until the matter of the portal is settled." He said quietly, and the sentence was greeted by a chorus of agreeing voices. Barristan couldn't help but agree with him - the Americans had said it themselves. The goal of any diplomacy right now was to decide what to do about the portal.

"Then let's head downstairs," the President said, as the group stood up and left the room. "I can't say that there is much to do in Topeka, but the Capitol isn't too bad."

"What is there to do here?" King Robert asked, pointing down the stairs. "Can we talk about it on the way down?"

The President looked at Robert for a moment. "Of course," he said, changing direction and walking down the stairs. "The capitol is known for its beautiful murals. I can't say that I've had the chance to look at them too closely, but from what I've seen they live up to their reputation, especially about the one about the American Civil War."

"_The_ American Civil War?" Barristan asked. "It sounds like there was only one. What was it fought over?" The knight made sure to watch his tongue carefully. His Grace had been clear in his instructions: under no circumstances were they to utter so much as a word about the Rebellion. If the Americans learned of pretenders to the Throne, they might prefer to deal with them instead.

"You are correct, Sir Barristan. We have only had one civil war in our two-hundred and forty-seven-year long history." A young nation, then, Barristan reflected. Still, that they had so few civil wars was admirable. "As for what it was fought over, a cause of it was slavery."

Barristan frowned. "I thought that the United States doesn't allow for slavery?" They had made sure of that before they had crossed the portal.

"Not anymore," the President said, "however, it used to be that the nation was divided over it. The North states had abolished slavery, while the Southern ones kept it. Part of the build-up to the civil war happened here in Kansas if you would believe it."

"States?" Robert asked.

"The United States is, as the name implies, a number of states that are united," The President explained. "You've seen it on the map we showed you earlier. They have control over their own affairs but answer to the Federal government, which I represent. At the time, there was a question over how much power the Federal government should wield, and how independent the states were. You could see that in how slavery was left up to the state in question."

"In Kansas' case, it was a new state at that time, and its citizens were divided over whether it should be a slave-owning or free state. When peaceful solutions failed, citizens turned to launching raids and outright killing each other. It inflamed tensions across the states, and the war kicked off a few years later."

"Couldn't your ruler force peace?" Barristan asked. "Command that they stop fighting before it brought the entire realm to war, Mister President?"

"As I said," The President continued, "the Federal government was in an uncertain position at the time. Ordering soldiers into Kansas would have been seen as tyrannical by the states, as a direct violation of their rights." As would the lords of the realm, Barristan noted. It was strange to see such an openly republican nation be so similar to the Seven Kingdoms.

The President shook his head, continuing, "Not now of course. With the victory of the Federal government against the rebel states, the power of the states was undercut in the years following the war. There remain a few questions over the issue, but there is no doubt that the Federal government is supreme."

Barristan was quiet as they reached the ground floor, as the highborn turned and saw that the King had returned. If the authority of the American's crown was strengthened after a war among themselves, what does it say about Robert and the pack of vipers in his court?


	5. EDDARD II

**EDDARD****  
**

As was his habit, Eddard woke up early. Ignoring the treasonous pleas of his flesh to rest for a moment longer, he grasped around blindly in the dark, at last feeling a chain and yanking it down.

His eyes watered for a moment at the sudden light, coming from the now shining lamp. For however mystical the Americans' lights were, it never failed to unnerve Eddard how easily they were lit for that. Yet, it was a pattern that was repeated throughout his very room: with the turn of a lever he could have hot water, with the press of a stud he could be as cool as winter, and with the tug of a chain he could have light.

Rising from bed, he dressed, as he looked to judge the time outside his window. The curtains were pulled tight over the glass, yet the American's yellow light seeped in from the outside regardless, making it difficult to tell. Pulling them aside, at last, he saw that the dark of night was only just starting to fade, yet the streets were almost lit with the brilliance of day. He continued looking for a moment, at the strangeness of the city. It was easy to be distracted by the lights, the steel-and-glass structures, the too-wide roads, and to miss the deeper mysteries they concealed.

Like the absence of a wall around the city. It made the city too vulnerable to Eddard: bandits and invading armies could sack it with impunity. The Americans could surely build one if the quality of their roads and buildings were anything to go by, so why didn't they? The Americans were a strange folk, but they'd never shown themselves to be so foolish.

It would be something to ask today, perhaps after the Americans demonstrated their weapons. In the meantime, Eddard had his responsibilities: as Hand of the King, as Lord of Winterfell, and as a Father.

Pulling the curtains shut again, Eddard made his way to the door, stepping outside into the hallway. Two of his guards were standing there, straightening up as they saw him exit. He looked at the two for a moment, remembering their names. "Alyn, Jacks," he greeted. The two bowed their heads in return, quietly greeting him back. "Has anything happened?"

Alyn shook his head. "Not much, milord. Some drunk lordling left his room at the dead of night. He didn't make it off the floor."

Eddard then heard soft footsteps on the carpet and guessed why the nobleman hadn't. Two members of the Secret Service were approaching: their minders. Indoors, they had removed the dark glass pieces over their eyes, something Eddard was grateful for. With how they hid their eyes he found it difficult to tell what the men and women were truly thinking.

"Good morning, Lord Stark," one of them greeted, "Is there anything you need?"

"No," he replied, looking between the two of them. "I wanted to see around the rooms and make sure nothing's amiss."

The agent nodded, the two stepping back as the other pressed a finger to their ear, saying that Lord Stark would be walking around the floors. And just like that, all the Americans know, Eddard thought. He felt ill at ease, that the Americans could know where he was and what he was doing at nearly any time. He motioned his two guardsmen to follow him, and they walked around the hotel.

Rooms and floors were assigned by station: himself, his daughters, Lord Renly and King Robert were at the top of the structure, which left much of the rooms empty. Below him were the lords, ladies, and nobility in further order of rank, until the bottom levels were occupied by the smallfolk servants and guardsmen that came with them. He recalled that to have enough beds, the Americans were forced to remove the furniture to put in additional bunks, or bedrolls even.

He discarded the idle thoughts as he drew close to Robert's room. Outside stood Ser Barristan, with a score of Baratheon guards cloistered around. The veteran Kingsguard noticed him quickly, turning to face him with a short bow. "Lord Hand," he greeted.

"Lord Commander," Eddard greeted back, bowing slightly in return. At that, the two lifted their heads. "I trust you have had an uneventful night?"

"Ser Boros was late to his shift. I sent some men to see to him, and they had to tear him from the bed covers." Eddard nodded at that, and Barristan continued. "His Grace groused about the lack of womanly company. He'll make do, at least until we return to Westeros."

"It shouldn't be too long," Eddard said. "I don't intend for negotiations to last longer than today."

Barristan quirked an eyebrow, "So soon?" He asked.

"We have had no warning, no time to plan, and next to no knowledge about what these Americans are," Eddard responded. He was about to say more until he noticed the pair of Secret Service agents in the corner of his vision. He closed his mouth, waiting until they had passed before continuing. "I don't know if these Americans are cheating us, or if they're being honest with us."

"A temporary agreement then," Barristan noted, "until we have a better plan?"

"I only hope the Americans think the same." It was a fool's hope: the Americans had made it abundantly clear since their first meeting: they wanted a foothold in Westeros. Their President had seemed amicable enough, but they had not refused him, yet.

Eddard left after that, walking around the myriad halls. When he saw that the sky had changed color, from black to blue, the pair of Secret Service agents on the floor approached him. "Lord Stark, Sir Barristan reports that your daughters are awake, now."

Eddard nodded. "I see, thank you." Escorted by his two guards, he returned to the top of the hotel. They could have each had their own, with how many spare rooms there were on the floor, but Septa Mordane insisted on a single room for the both of them, as to keep them together.

Rapping on the door, it was opened a moment later by Septa Mordane. "Your daughters are decent, my Lord." Eddard stepped aside for a moment, letting a pair of smallfolk maids (born and raised in Winterfell) leave the room, before stepping in himself.

Inside, he could see that the curtains were pulled aside to let in the early morning light. Sansa was sitting on a cushioned chair, wearing a southron dress in grey-and-white coloring. Arya was wearing the same, though Eddard could tell that it was one of Sansa's old dresses.

"Good morning, Father," Sansa greeted, ever the model of a proper lady. Arya murmured the same, distracted by examining the lamp in her hands.

"Good morning," Eddard greeted back. He stepped forward and gently tugged the lamp out of Arya's hands. "And don't play with that. It is not a toy."

Arya glared at him, and Eddard returned it with one of his own. For a moment, he was reminded of Lyanna, and her wolfish glare.

Arya, however, lacked the stubbornness that had set so deeply into Lyanna, and she soon averted her eyes. "It's so boring here," she said. "I've tried to go out and see the city."

Eddard nodded, remembering yesterday. Arya had tried to slip out, but the Americans had caught her before she succeeded. It was, Eddard reflected, for the best. If Arya vanished, he may have suspected the Americans. Though, with how quickly they responded, he suspected that the Americans were watching his daughters closely.

He blinked, forcing the thoughts out of his mind. If he continued being so paranoid, he'd start seeing the Secret Service in the shadows of his halls. "We'll be leaving the hotel today," he said. "Remember, the Americans promised to demonstrate their weapons today for us."

Arya brightened up at that, but Sansa wore a pout on her face. "I don't think it will be terribly exciting, Father. The Americans don't seem to enjoy tourneys or even a melee."

"They don't," Eddard said, "but it would be interesting to watch."

"What's so interesting about a crossbow, Father?"

Before Eddard could say anything further, he heard the door opening. Frowning, he turned around to see who opened the door, the question on his lips when the King strode through. "Ned!" His old friend cried out, "There you are! I should have known you'd be with your daughters."

Eddard gave a slight bow (Robert would think it an annoyance, but there was tradition to follow,) and began to speak. "Good morning Robert."

"Good morning indeed!" He laughed, "Today we'll see how the Americans fight! Finally, something I can understand about them." He shook his head at that, Robert's black mane of hair flying left to right. "Ah- but we'll need to break our fast with their president first."

Eddard understood immediately. "Everyone's awake?" He asked.

"If they aren't, they'll be soon," Robert said, "I've my bannermen knocking on the doors, with a command from their King to assemble."

Eddard turned to his daughters, "It's time to go, both of you."

Barristan was outside the door, with Boros having turned in to sleep. With Renly waiting by the stairs with his own bannermen, they had assembled their party.

The Hotel had its own halls for feasting, Eddard had learned, but none large enough for the Westerosi and Americans. In what was becoming tradition, the Americans compensated by setting up a feast outside.

As Eddard drew close, he first noted that General Belrose wasn't present, perhaps preparing for their weapons demonstration. He had thought that the Colonel was absent as well, only to recognize the Marine standing so close to the President.

In place of the tailored clothes he wore the days prior, he now wore the brown-and-green uniform of the men that served under him, with an octagonal cap displaying an anchor and sphere. Were he not familiar with the man, he would have struggled to tell him apart from his subordinates.

Sitting down, they were greeted by a table already filled with food. Placed closest to Eddard was a plate of crisp, lightly-salted bacon, followed by a platter of chopped potatoes, cooked to a golden brown and accompanied by a bowl of seasoned, soft-boiled eggs. They each had a glass of water to drink immediately and could order freshly-squeezed juices and aged wines per request.

It was Sansa who ended up asking the question first. "Colonel, why did you change your clothes? And where's your sword?" Eddard could see the distaste in her expression as she looked at the Colonel's current wear.

If the Colonel noticed it as well, he made no mention of it. "What you saw was my dress uniform, Ms. Stark," Colonel Lyon replied, taking a sip out of a cup of steaming, dark liquid before continuing. "Its what I wear to look my best. To tell the truth, the sword is more of a decorative item: it hasn't seen a day in combat. I'll be working today, though, so I'm wearing these."

His daughter frowned, both at the Colonel's choice of uniform and the dismissal of his own sword. "Wouldn't that make it more difficult to see you in battle, Colonel? And why would you refuse to use your sword?"

"Not completely," The man answered, tugging on his lapel. There, Eddard could see that a small insignia was pinned on the fabric. A bird of some kind with its wings stretched out. He recalled seeing the same symbol on the man's clothing before. "Any Marine who sees this will know I'm their Colonel. As for my sword, well, you're going to find out why we don't use them anymore."

"But anyone else?" Sansa pressed. The man's only response was to give a smile, which told Eddard all he needed to know. Making it difficult to separate him from his men was the entire point of the uniform.

A thought occurred to him, then. "Would the General also have changed his uniform?"

President Thomas shook his head. "No. Colonel Lyon will be participating in the demonstration personally today. Brigadier General Belrose will just be supervising."

When the eyes at the table turned to the Colonel, he continued sipping his drink for a moment before setting it down. "It was at my personal request," he explained. "It's not often I get to shoot and show off guns at my position these days. More often I end up directing the men beneath me to fight instead of getting up in there myself."

"A damn shame," Robert said, setting the half-eaten strip of bacon down on his plate. "I'm not fighting much these days either." Eddard glanced at his King's royal stomach for a moment. Perhaps not fighting at all, if the fat was anything to go by.

Soon enough, though, breakfast had finished, and they were on their way to the demonstration. Even so, Eddard couldn't help but fill ill at ease when he recalled where the demonstration would be held.

The Americans claimed that their weapons required some degree of space to fire, and there were some legal issues about firing them off in the confines of the city, even an empty one. In the same vein of logic as building a base on the Westerosi side of the portal, the Americans had wanted to hold the demonstration on Westerosi soil as well. It was not an easy discussion, but Robert eventually agreed to allow it.

"I don't know if you can see it," Robert had told Eddard later over a private meal in his room, "but these Americans are frightened. Of what, I don't know, but I know a scared beast will claw and thrash and shake everything in its path to escape. Better we calm the beast, or at least get out of the way before we try anything further."

There was some wisdom to Robert's words, Eddard felt. The Americans had been persistent in their dealings, wanting to get things done as quickly as possible. What drove them, Eddard didn't know, and his mind wandered in circles trying to figure out.

"Is there anything wrong, my lord?" The voice of Jory drew him from his thoughts, and Eddard turned around in his saddle to look at the man.

"No, Jory," Eddard lied. "Just thinking about these Americans."

The man shrugged, gently guiding his horse back onto the road. "I have had worse company, my Lord. The foreigners are polite enough, if informal. Talk with a few of their officers, and you'd only remember they're not nobility halfway through."

Eddard nodded, as he processed what Jory told him. "What did you discuss?" He asked, curious.

"Marriage, in the end," Jory began. "I asked a captain why he wore a ring, and he revealed to me that it is American custom for a husband and wife to wear a matching pair. Though, the ceremony itself is rather dull when I heard it."

"How so?"

"Apparently they don't have a bedding ceremony. I had to explain what it was to the man, and he turned red enough that I thought he was a virgin."

Eddard quirked an eyebrow. "Is he?"

"Allegedly he has two sons and a daughter. Unless he's a clueless cuckold, I think its more like he was embarrassed, my lord. In that regard, they seem to be more similar to the Southrons than anything."

Eddard didn't respond to that: The Arch, as his daughter called it, was ahead. Bracing himself, the hairs nevertheless raised across his spine as he passed through. He shivered in the warmth of the sun – he didn't know if he would ever get used to the sensation. It was good, though, to be back in Westeros, even if he would have to return to America later that day.

The President arrived a minute later, in a large, black vehicle that bore some resemblance to the Humvees that the American soldiers used. Secret Service agents stepped out first, the sun glinting off their dark glasses as they surveyed the area. Satisfied, they opened the door, and the President stepped out of the vehicle.

Robert stood before him, with Ser Barristan behind him. "Welcome to Westeros, Mister President," He greeted. The two slightly bowed towards one another, lifting their heads in unison. It was an old diplomatic protocol that was only remembered by Ser Barristan, but it signified that they were equals, sovereigns of their own nations. At least, that was the intention.

"Thank you, your Grace," President Thomas said, adjusting his dark jacket. "Now, I believe that I promised you a demonstration."

There was a new addition to the American camp. Set a fair distance away from everything else, the Americans had piled up dirt tall enough to make a small hill. Thirty or so paces away, he could see a group of American soldiers in full armor clustered around an earthen wall, clutching their weapons as they watched the Westerosi approach. And in between them…

"Is that steel?" Barristan asked, seeing the metal gleam in the noon sun. Three large, rectangular plates of steel were set in the middle of the field. It was the largest piece of solid steel that Eddard had ever seen, not as thick as the Mountain's plate, but easily as thick as any well-equipped knight's armor.

"It is, Sir Barristan," General Belrose said, stepping forward. His gaze flickered over to Colonel Lyon, then to the man's brown-and-green uniform. There was a flicker of irritation in his eyes for a moment, before he turned his gaze back to Barristan. "If you wish, you can inspect them." The Kingsguard nodded, dismounting from his horse to approach the steel plates out front.

Eddard frowned. "Why steel plates?" He wondered.

It was Colonel Lyon who answered. "They'll be the targets for our demonstration, Lord Stark."

Just targets? "You can't expect to damage them?" Eddard asked, "If that Steel is properly made, even denting it would be a challenge."

The colonel turned to him, an unreadable expression on his face. Eddard could see the thoughts running through his eyes before he spoke. "They won't be making dents, Lord Stark."

Before Eddard could inquire further, General Belrose and Ser Barristan returned. "It's good steel," Barristan said, interrupting Eddard's reply. "Properly made. Whatever smith forged it knew their steel."

Everyone was silent for a moment until the General spoke up. "Yes," he said. "You should move behind the soldiers; the demonstration is about to start."

Ten paces behind the soldiers were the Westerosi guests that had come along to see the demonstration. Eddard saw that the Americans had set up a raised table in the back, and he could see the President and Robert, his daughters, and the other high-ranking attendants seated there. As they were walking there, Colonel Lyon spoke up, "I'm afraid I can't join you, gentlemen. I'll be in front of the crowd, narrating the event." With that, he broke away from the two, taking a position in front of the crowd, where a table was placed for him. Eddard could see the American rifles, their smaller weapon, and a small, fist-shaped item Eddard had seen hanging on some of the soldier's armor. He had thought it some form of decoration, but given its place on the table, it was clearly another weapon. The Colonel wasn't alone; he could see two Marines standing guard over the table.

Approaching the table, Lord Renly turned around and smiled at the two. "Lord Stark, Ser Barristan," he greeted. "We were just waiting for you."

"I see," was all Eddard said. Feeling something bump into his side, he looked down to see Nymeria there, looking up at him with a pleading expression. With a slight smile, he scratched the Direwolf pup between her ears for a moment before taking his seat next to Robert.

At that, the Colonel picked up a radio from the table, speaking into it for a moment. Instantly, the soldiers stopped lounging around and began laying on the ground, pointing their weapons towards the steel targets. The Colonel spoke then, projecting his voice across the crowd. "Good afternoon! Today, we will be demonstrating the standard issue weapons of the Armed Forces of the United States. Throughout this demonstration, we will first name the weapon used, demonstrate it, and explain it, afterward. The first will be the M4A1 Carbine."

"Shooters, at this time we will be demonstrating the M4A1 Carbine." Eddard jolted at the General's sudden words, trying to find him in the crowd. He, at last, found him closer to the soldiers, a rod in his hands, but he sounded like he was right by Eddard. "At this time, load and chamber one thirty-round magazine. Left side, switch from safe to semiautomatic. Right side, switch from safe to automatic. Commence firing."

At the command, the air erupted into a barrage of noise. Eddard tracked the source of it to the soldiers. The sound was a strange thing, like a roar of thunder that was cut short, only to strike again in the next second. With every strike of thunder, a puff of smoke spilled from the end of the American's weapons, as the steel plates began to be riddled with holes.

Amid the clamor of the crowd and the growls of the Direwolves, Eddard sat there, completely still. That was fine steel, as thick as a knight's plate. And the Americans were destroying it, utterly. Perhaps that was the intent, he realized, to show us that our armor meant nothing to them, that they could have killed us at any time.

He looked to the others, trying to gauge their reaction. Robert was abnormally quiet, his eyes shimmering intently as he stared at the demonstration. Barristan schooled his emotions well: the only hint of his distress was his tight grip around his sword. Renly looked dumbfounded as if he couldn't believe that good steel was being destroyed so easily. Sansa was frozen to her seat, gripping Lady with all her might. And lastly, Arya's eyes were darting to and fro, from the soldiers and their weapons to the hole-filled plates.

Eddard didn't notice when the thunder stopped, and the crowd quieted to nervous whispers until the Colonel began to speak again. "The M4 series is the standard issue carbine of the United States Armed Forces." He picked up the weapon from the table, holding it out before the crowd in his hands. "The M4A1 can hit targets around three-hundred paces away- "

"Preposterous!" A voice called out in the middle of the crowd, a hedge knight, by appearances. "Those targets weren't half that distance!"

The colonel quirked an eyebrow, before lifting the radio to his mouth. "All personnel, clear the range." At his command, the soldiers suddenly stood up and walked to opposite sides, as the Colonel turned around and loaded a metal block into the weapon. When they were clear, he lifted the weapon to his shoulder.

Although Eddard knew what was coming, the sudden sound still made him flinch. It was much louder up close, and he could see a metal cylinder fly from the weapon as the Colonel fired. With each shot, there was a new hole in the plate.

Satisfied, the Colonel turned around, looking at the hedge knight again. The man visibly swallowed, not saying a word before the Colonel continued. "As I was saying, the M4A1 Carbine can hit targets three-hundred paces away, and may fire in semi-automatic, or fully-automatic modes," Eddard recalled that the men on the right shot faster than the men on the left. "It can shoot thirty times from a single magazine," he said, lightly tapping the metal block he attached to the weapon, "and once fired, a rifleman can be expected to reload it within three seconds."

Eddard digested the information. If what they claimed was true, then any group of American warriors could easily take on more than ten times their number on an open field. Bowmen would be their best hope, Eddard thought, assuming the Americans didn't kill them first. He turned to look at Robert, who was looking at the weapons with a quiet intensity. He was thinking the same thing.

"If there are no questions, we'll continue." The Colonel waited a few moments in the silence. "Next up, we have the Beretta M9 Pistol." As he said that, the soldiers returned to the area, slinging their weapons across their backs while taking out the smaller weapons at their sides.

"Shooters, at this time we will be demonstrating the Beretta M9 Pistol. Load and chamber one fifteen-round magazine," the General repeated. "Switch from safe to fire. Commence firing."

The weapons didn't make as much noise this time, Eddard noted. Watching closely, he also saw that they didn't fire as many shots before the soldiers had to reload. It seemed in every way to be inferior to the M4 that was demonstrated earlier. Except, Eddard thought, in size. It didn't matter how large it was when it would tear holes in you all the same.

"The Beretta M9 is the standard issue pistol of the United States Armed Forces," the Colonel began, once the firing had stopped. "If the M4 is our sword, then the M9 is our knife." Not that the Americans lacked either, Eddard thought, remembering the sword formerly at the Colonel's side, and the knives that the American soldiers carried around. "Light, easily concealable, and perfect for close-quarters combat." Eddard thought back to the Secret Service, and that slight bulge in their clothing, and cursed again.

"If you've been paying attention, you would have noticed that we left the center plate untouched," he said. "This is to demonstrate the last weapon system today, the M67 Grenade."

"All shooters, at this time you are to exit the area. Designated Grenadier and safety, at this time you may enter the area." With those words, all the soldiers turned and left, proceeding out of the way in an orderly fashion. As they did, two more stepped in, one of them armed with the first-sized object that Eddard had seen earlier. Standing behind the earthen wall that had been ignored throughout the demonstration, the two shared a few words, unheard by anyone else.

Crouching slightly, the one with the grenade in their hand fiddled with the device for a moment. Peeking over the wall for a moment, he hurled the weapon over the earth, screaming, "Frag out!" before the two threw themselves to the ground.

When the grenade hit, a cloud of dust erupted into the air, to the further clamor of the crowd. The clamor dropped off only as the dust faded away, revealing the target. At the point closest to the grenade, Eddard could see a great tear in the plate, like a giant had ripped it apart. Elsewhere, it was peppered with many smaller holes and tears, any of which would have been fatal to anyone standing on the other side.

"The M67 Grenade," The Colonel began, picking up the weapon casually as the courtiers closest to him began to step back, "is a fragmentation grenade. Once thrown, it will explode, as you've seen, releasing tiny metal shards across the area. Think of it as being stabbed with a thousand knives in every direction. One of the primary uses of grenades is for city combat. When clearing structures you can easily kill or incapacitate any defenders inside with this weapon."

"I'd imagine…" Renly began, stopping for a moment before he continued, "that it would also work well against tight formations as well?"

The Colonel nodded, "You would be correct, Lord Baratheon."

And castles, Eddard thought. Many of the defenses can be easily destroyed by lobbing a grenade into the room and killing everyone inside.

Why didn't the Americans build walls? The question came to Eddard unbidden, and as he thought on it, he realized he already had the answer. Because walls would have been useless: he remembered the American vehicles, some of whom had weapons similar to those demonstrated: only much larger. The American dragons weren't just in the skies, he thought, but on the ground.

"For those who want to see the results up close," The colonel concluded, looking at the audience, "you can get close now. If it were my Marines, I could promise they wouldn't shoot you. Then again, these are Army." There was a smile on his face at that, but it faded quickly once no one started laughing. Throngs of noblemen and attendants, however, began to cautiously step forward, curious to see the damage up close.

Before Eddard could do so himself, the President spoke up. "Were you impressed by our weapons?"

"Very," Robert said, his gaze lingering on the ruined steel plates before turning back to the President. "I expected crossbows of a sort." Hoped, he meant. It would have made them much easier to deal with. "I'd like to go see the damage for myself."

"Of course," The president replied. "Are we going to continue negotiations afterward, as we planned?"

Robert's eyes flickered over to Eddard. The Lord of Winterfell took a deep breath. "Yes, Mister President." He said. "We will."

"Glad to hear that, Lord Stark," the President said, standing up himself. "I'll go down and give my thanks to the soldiers. I'll see you later." As the President walked off, Eddard began to think and plan through a thousand scenarios in his head, trying to figure out what to do. The Americans had proved themselves extraordinarily powerful: to allow them to construct a base could invite invasion later on. Yet, to deny them could provoke them into launching one.

Caught between a rock and a hard place, a thought wormed its way into Eddard's brain. The more he thought about it, the more he considered it. It's a fools hope, he thought, and a temporary solution at best, but one that would buy time. He could only pray that the Americans accepted the offer.


	6. LEE I

Special Thanks to Mashadarof402 and Rear Mirrors for beta'ing this chapter.

**LEE**

"Seriously Lee, you put it the best: The _Fuck._"

Steven Lee, Private First Class in the United States Army, sighed, muttering, "should've kept my mouth shut." He would have never had said that if he knew the kids spoke English. On second thought, Lee reflected, that was a lie. He still would have said it after finding out that they spoke the same language. _The Fuck._ Even weeks later, he was still in shock over the whole thing. "Let's be honest: I only said what we were all thinking." His eyes flickered back down to the M4A1 sitting disassembled in his lap. Running his finger over the insides, he frowned when it came back, still stained black with soot. "Damn it," he cursed, grabbing the rag and wiping down the inside of the receiver again.

Today was the first time he fired his weapon on the other side of the portal. He half-thought it would be to kill some wild animal or alien creature or whatever. He was sure it was going to be when that knight in golden armor showed up. In the end, it was a range they ran for the guys from Westeros. He had to admit: it was funny watching the people straight from the Medieval Ages run their hands over the wrecked plate, like they couldn't believe he had just demolished it. Still, if it meant he didn't have to clean his weapon all over again, he would have tried to shirk off the responsibility to someone else.

Scrubbing at a persistent black mark, he lifted his head to look at one of the members of his fireteam. Fellow PFC David Jones was smiling at him, leaning casually against the HMMVV. His green eyes were alit with playful malice that Lee had learned to associate with the man. _Sucks to be you,_ his expression read. He began to talk once he had Lee's attention, "Doesn't make it any less funny, though. We were this close to turning you into a meme," bringing his right hand up, he almost pinched his index finger and thumb together, "this close to greatness. Imagine it, you would have been the first meme from a new planet."

"Is that all you ever think about!" Lee spat out, "Damn it, we're on a whole new world, and of all things, that?"

"Alright, so do you want me to think about some of those highborn ladies? I'm sure I've got some noble blood in me somewhere," Jones replied, wearing a shit-eating grin on his face. Lee, for his part, buried his face into his hands, knowing that he had just walked straight into that. "Listen, I'm just being considerate here, not talking about the girls after you asked me to stop. What's wrong?"

"You know this whole thing is classified to hell and back, yes?" A welcome, tired voice rang out. Standing off to the side was their sergeant, Diana Rodriguez. "As for the girls, if you want to expose yourself to STDs from space, go ahead. Then again, thinking ahead isn't your strong suit Jones, otherwise I'd still have an E-4." Jones' smile died a bit at that: he was still sore about losing rank. Lee wasn't sure what had happened since it was before he got to the unit. And just afterward he was immediately sent to Kansas when the portal opened up. Funny, he thought, I joined the Army to get away from home.

Jones, meanwhile, had decided to start talking again. "Seriously though, the _fuck._ One minute I'm on leave, getting some cute thing's number. I'm putting it in, and suddenly you're calling me sarge, screaming in my ear and telling me to grab my gear, _time now._ I thought it was World War Three or some shit; but no, a magical portal popped up out of nowhere, in the middle of Flyover America." Reflexively, Lee dropped the stained rag in his hands, turning his eyes upward with a _look_ at Jones. For all he wanted to leave, Topeka wasn't _that _bad. "Yeah, I know you're from around there. Am I wrong?"

"Nope." To the left of Lee was the last member of their fireteam: Specialist Shawn Robins. "Sorry brother, but it's true." Lee guessed that the man was pretty happy he wasn't part of the range: the SAW he carried could put out a barrage of rounds, but it took some time to clean it afterward. Time that the man preferred to have to himself, reading whatever caught his eye.

"Fuck you guys," Lee said, picking up the rag again and running it over the insides of his weapon once more. "I wasn't expecting we'd run into any humans on the other side, though," Lee said, trying to change the topic. "Aliens? Sure, magical portal, I could buy that. Humans? Never mind humans that can speak English?"

Surprisingly, it worked. "That's for sure," Jones agreed, crossing his arms "when I first heard of the portal, I thought it would have been some weird alien world on the other side. Complete with monsters, hostile wildlife, and green-skinned space babes," Lee rolled his eyes, as Jones continued, "Hell, I thought we would have had to go around in MOPP gear or carry oxygen tanks. But no, we come over and it looks like something straight out of a fantasy movie." Lee couldn't help but agree with that: the portal was a series of surprises, one after the other, mysteries atop mysteries.

No one was even quite sure when the portal popped up in Topeka – sometime after midnight, that's when the first official reports started coming in. By the time the police had cordoned off the area, social media was blowing up, going on about US black ops, alien invasions, Rapture, anything and everything. To tell the truth, he still didn't know what was going on, really. He doubted anyone did.

"Only joke being that it was a medieval fantasy novel," Sergeant Rodriguez said. "Complete with lords, knights, and peasants." Rodriguez sounded a little uncomfortable at the last one, and Lee felt the same. He heard how, back in the hotel, the regular people were all being forced into the lowest levels, just because some noble wanted a floor to himself. Allegedly the officers had brought it up once or twice in conversation, and the nobles just waved the 'smallfolk' off. He hadn't heard one way or another if the stories were true or not, but he wouldn't have been surprised if they were.

"Still was pretty funny watching their faces during the range," Jones' eyes and mouth opened wide, in a mockery of their shock. It broke, a moment later, when he began laughing. "Ah, man. You know, Colonel Lyon might not have been happy with just a small arms range, but I don't think it would have mattered much. They're probably going to agree to anything we say after that little demonstration."

Their sergeant frowned, "What's this about Colonel Lyon?" She asked.

Jones shrugged, "You know me, Sergeant. I heard that behind closed doors, the Colonel wanted to go all-out on the demonstration: tanks, arty, air strikes, the works. Put the fear of God into the guys from Westeros. Didn't get it, of course, but he managed to finagle his way into the range. What I've heard is that he's the one who pushed for them to use steel plates for the targets."

"Let me guess, this is from the Marines?" Sergeant Rodriguez asked.

Jones only smiled. The man was ever elusive about his 'sources,' though they evidently paid off enough to warrant protection. Lee would have thought it was admirable if Jones didn't use those sources and connections to avoid responsibility and leave him to deal with whatever cropped up. Robins, however, only shrugged. "I'm just wondering where the Elves are," he said, and Lee could only blink.

"Oh for," Jones turned to Robins, disbelief writ on his face. "God _damn it_, Robins!" Lee meanwhile, turned his attention back to the M4A1 in his hands, satisfied that he had cleaned out the last of the mess. He began to re-assemble the weapon.

"All I'm saying is that if this is a fantasy story we walked into, there better be some elves here," Robins said defensively. Lee had learned the safest bet when the two were arguing was to ignore them, which he did. Jones tried to bring him into the conversation one time, thinking he was Japanese, but when Lee corrected him and told him he was Korean, he was left alone afterward. He looked over the weapon in his hands, pulling back the charging handle as part of a functions check.

Jones, meanwhile shook his head, "You and your damn Japanese cartoon porn." Halfway through the check, Lee froze. And this, he thought, was the other 1% of the time where he should have stepped in. It was too late now.

Robins' dark skin flushed. "Hey, they're Light Novels! At least get that right!"

"You do _not_ get to pull that shit on me, I've seen your stash!"

Oh God. Lee stared blankly at the M4A1, trying to shut out the impending debate. Not this shit again. Robins' obsession with Japanese literature aside, Jones' dismissal of it always stirred up an argument. He looked around for Sergeant Rodriguez, to beg her to step in when he saw she had vanished. There was a brief moment of panic before she returned, clipping a handheld radio on her uniform.

"Whatever's going on, stow it," she said. And like that, the debate was cut off, though Lee couldn't help but be worried about the tone in her voice. Something was happening. "Captain's back, and he wants Bravo Company formed up by 1400." Lee looked down at his watch and cursed.

"Wouldn't kill him to give us fifteen minutes notice, would it?" Jones asked, as he got off the HMMVV and unslung his M4, gripping the underbarrel grenade launcher. Though the sentiment was shared, no one echoed it. Soon enough, they were jogging through the tents. There wasn't much going on today, most of the hectic activity had been in the first few days they'd been here. The only thing of note was a Marine pounding a sign on both sides of the portal. In clear, bold lettering, it read: **NO LEANING ON THE PORTAL BY THE ORDER OF COLONEL JACOB LYONS**.

"No leaning on the portal?" Lee repeated as they moved past, "Why'd they have to put that?"

"Word is that some Jarheads started doing it and the Colonel caught them," Jones replied, "It was while we were Earth-side."

"One of these days, I'm going to find out who the hell your sources are," Lee grumbled, as they moved into the Army areas. As they drew close, Lee already began to pick out familiar faces moving in the same direction. He couldn't quite attach names to all of them yet, and if it weren't for the nametapes he would have been lost. As it was, he only exchanged brief greetings with the soldiers of his company as he moved forward.

Next, to their platoon's tent, they found Captain Zoeckler standing there. His commander had been in the black and blue dress uniform for the past few days, but he evidently found time to change into the camouflaged ACU. Zoeckler looked over their way for a moment before he continued scanning the area before him. Probably counting to make sure we're all here, Steven thought. With nothing else to do, he fell in with his fireteam on the outer edges of the formation: a half-circle centered around the captain. They seemed to be one of the last ones to show up, with the rest of the company almost completely assembled. As the soldiers waited for the last of their number to show up, Lee could hear some quiet conversation going on.

"What do you think he called us all together for?" Robins asked, "I hope we haven't all been recruited into some top-secret crap."

"Robins," their sergeant said, "this already top-secret. But you know the Captain: he isn't the kind of person to call us together just to say hi. Something's going on."

A moment later, Captain Zoeckler started to pace slowly, signaling he was ready to speak. "Good Afternoon Bravo Company," the man began, "I'm here to pass down word from command: negotiations are over."

"Over?" Someone called out, and Lee could relate. Everyone, himself included, thought they would take _weeks_ to sort through everything. What was going on? Did we get what we wanted, he wondered, or did the guys from Westeros try something?

"_For now,_" the Captain clarified, continuing, "King Robert felt that negotiations were moving too fast for him. He asked for talks to be postponed and continued at for a later, undetermined date so he could have some time to process it all." There were some whispers from the crowd at that, and Lee could understand the sentiment: so, what the hell was going on now?

"Well, this is a good sign," Jones commented sarcastically, shutting his mouth and standing perfectly still when the Captain looked at him.

He continued a moment later. "In the meantime, however, Robert has agreed to a limited treaty. Past the drivel, what's important for us is that we have authority to operate inside the region the Westerosi call the Riverlands. The region which we, and by extension, the Arch, stand in. _Without_, being arrested by some lord or village elder because we offended some generational custom or taboo." A hand raised from the formation, and the Captain stopped pacing. "Lieutenant Baker?"

"Arch, sir?" The female voice rang out. Lee couldn't remember her role in the company: all he knew was that she wasn't his platoon leader.

"The official name for the portal," The Captain said, gesturing over to the feature, soaring over the tops of the tents, "given to it by the Westerosi." Lee's first thought was that the Colonel would have to re-make his sign. His second was that this was exactly what they asked for, wasn't it?

"The catch," the commander said, as if reading his thoughts, "is that we are going have to deal with a noble liaison appointed by the King." Lee merely nodded at that, wondering if they would end up being hamstrung by red tape or something during their stay. "In addition, we are only allowed to maintain what the Westerosi define as a camp on this side of the Arch. If we can't put it up and take it down in 24 hours, we can't put it up at all." _That,_ on the other hand, caused Lee to raise an eyebrow. How the hell did they manage to get that clause in?

"You know," Jones said, quietly, "It's not like we can blow them all up in a moment's notice or anything. Not like we can poke a bunch of holes into their fancy armored knights. Oh wait, we can, and they're still trying to haggle with us."

"Perhaps PFC," Captain Zoeckler began, causing Jones to shut his mouth tightly. "However, naked displays of force are no longer considered a viable means of diplomatic action. The whole world is watching us: any cause we give our adversaries to intervene will be used against us. Going in guns blazing is not possible." The Captain never talked about whether it was moral to do so in the first place, Lee noted. It wouldn't be right just to roll over a nation where the most advanced piece of technology was a sword, but that didn't matter to the Captain. To him, it was always math and politics that determined everything.

Still, he wasn't really wrong. The US was trying to censor anything and everything related to the… Arch. Beyond a statement by the President that it existed, the US was doing its damnest to make sure that nothing else got out. Still, they couldn't block the images that were circulating around, of the portal that appeared in the middle of the road, leading to an untouched forest. He wasn't fully up to date with what was going on in the world, courtesy of being on the other side of a portal that blocked wireless. He still knew that the issue was brought up before the UN, and there were talks about forming an international task force to deal with the portal. Fat chance of that, he thought.

As Lee wrapped up his thoughts, Zoeckler spoke again. "In the meantime, we have additional concerns. When we first arrived here, all we had to do was to prevent travel from either side of the Arch, and limit the spread of extra-terrestrial diseases." They had, in fact, been walking around in fully sealed MOPP gear before the Marines passed down word that they had spotted _human_ children playing up north. In the interest of diplomacy, they had to go without it. It was nice to get the hot, sweat-inducing suit off, but he couldn't help but be nervous, wondering if he'd wake up puking or finding half his company gone. Compared to that, stalking around in the sauna suits would have been a small price to pay. "That will be changing. I got word from on high that we're going to be expecting a lot more travel through the Arch."

"What, civilian travel?" the outburst came from somewhere in the crowd.

"Not unrestricted," Zoeckler replied. "From POTUS downward, command wants to know what's beyond the Arch. Expect a bunch of eggheads to be coming through." And we'll have to protect their asses, Lee thought. He shouldn't be thinking too badly of them, he thought, but he couldn't shake the feeling that if he ended up dying over here, it would be because they screwed up. "At the moment, however, travel is unsafe. That will be our first order of business: clearing the way for them." Lee frowned, raising his hand, "Yes, PFC?"

"What do you mean by clearing the way, sir?" He asked.

The captain nodded. "We have reports from the Marines that suggests the presence of bandits or highwaymen in close vicinity to the Arch," there were a few whispers from the crowd at that, ones that Lee could understand. Bandits? It was the first he heard of them, and, he couldn't help but feel a little tense knowing how close they were to home. Even though he realized that they were likely equipped only with swords, it was still uncomfortable for him. "We haven't been able to deal with them. They have, rationally, avoided bothering us, and deploying forces to find and eliminate them could be construed as an attack and a breach of sovereignty," With a start, Lee understood where his captain was going with this. "With this latest agreement, however, we now have the authority to deploy on Westerosi soil."

The company was quiet at the words. Captain Zoeckler continued. "As of this time, plans are still being made, and finalized," he emphasized, "this is strictly for you to know ahead of time, and to be ready for it. Platoon Leaders, Platoon Sergeants, see me afterward. The rest of you: continue as you were."

At that, the company dispersed, leaving Lee and his fireteam to walk away. "I'll be checking all your gear again later tonight," Sergeant Rodriguez said, once they were a distance away, "Even yours, Lee." Lee could only shrug at that. For all the jokes he got about being focused on the job, sometimes to the exclusion of everything else, he did good work. Predictably, Specialist Robins and PFC Jones didn't feel the same way, though the only thing on their faces at that was a sour expression.

As their Sergeant walked away, Jones spoke. "Well, looks like we're killing people after all," Lee nodded. "You know, for a moment I thought this might actually go against my expectations. After that brief scare at that Inn, I thought this might actually have been peaceful."

"You still owe me twenty," Robins said, "you bet that we would have started a war within the week with these guys, and that's not happening."

"Yet," Jones replied. Nevertheless, he reached inside his uniform and pulled out his wallet. "I'm still putting money on us kicking their asses later on, though."


End file.
